Cold-Blooded
by scribblescribblescribble
Summary: The Wilsons may be the most dysfunctional family on the face of the earth, and since it's down to only two members, Slade and his daughter Rose, that's a lot of dysfunction. Now Slade is serious enough about a woman to tell Rose about her, and Rose so much wants to be part of a real family again. Unfortunately no one told the woman in question...
1. Rose: Wintergreen Remembered

A/N: This story began life as an Arkham Asylum universe fic about Mr. Freeze and his wife, but it morphed. The secondary plot, Yukie and Slade, somehow took over. Therefore I am reworking it into a Titans story focusing on the Wilson family with visits from the Batman family. Ra's Al Ghul and Talia will play roles.

If you have been reading from the very start, there will be additions/alterations to the chapters.

If you're new—welcome! Pull up a chair and get comfy. I warn you, I am taking the food processor approach to canon regarding the Titans—elements from all the various universes all mixed up.

Obligatory Disclaimers: I do not own any characters belonging to DC Comics and I am not getting paid for this.

* * *

There are more tears shed over answered prayers than unanswered prayers.—St Teresa of Avila.

Rose Wilson moved from photo to photo down the hall. Each time the Titans changed their lineup, they took a new group picture. No matter how briefly someone was one of them, no matter if they later turned bad or were a turncoat all along, they had a place on the wall. No redacting reality, no erasing them with digital imaging software. Bad and good, there they were. She stopped when she reached the first photo with her brother Joseph. He was dressed like a prince from a storybook—though that really was no excuse for the sideburns. Nothing could excuse those sideburns.

He was—had been—almost six years older than she was.

Those who knew about them, including the Titans assumed they—Joseph and she—had one good, normal parent, their mother Adeline Kane Wilson, and then, of course, Deathstroke, their father, who between nature and nurture, had blighted their lives. The reality was more complicated, as reality tends to be. Rose had been in therapy for a while now, and was starting to reconcile her feelings, but it was a hard road and it felt like she was walking it without shoes.

Adeline Kane had been a captain in the US Army and a top instructor in guerilla warfare, which was how she met her future husband. She fired sharpshooter, taught hand-to-hand combat, was in every way an exceptional soldier—except, being a woman, she couldn't serve in combat. That had to have been a source of anger from the start; Rose didn't know. There were a lot of reasons that a woman in the armed forces might be angry, and being barred from active combat was probably the least of them.

What she did know was that her mother was an angry woman, angry and frightened. For the first six years of her life, she, her mother and her brother had lived very quietly in Washington State. They were homeschooled, with as little contact with the outside world as possible. She had been told that their last name was Worth and their father was dead.

Then one day a man who saw them in the parking lot of a grocery store did a double-take, then walked over and said "Hello, Adeline. It's been a long time." His name was Wintergreen, and he was very calm and gentle while her mother was freaking out. He had driven back to their house with them and talked to their mother for hours while she and Joseph tried to eavesdrop from upstairs.

She decided Wintergreen was exactly the sort of man she had dreamed of as her father, and hoped that maybe, _maybe_ that he and her mother would get married—she did like to build castles in the air—and then Mommy wouldn't be so unhappy all the time.

But no, that wasn't what happened. Wintergreen left, and a few weeks later, came back with another man, a very large man with white hair and a beard, and a boy who was a few years older than Joe. Then she learned that this was her father, who wasn't dead, and she had another brother named Grant. Something had happened at their old house, where she had never been because she hadn't even been born yet, and their mother had taken Joseph and gone into hiding, but now they were all going to be a family again.

She didn't know if she liked that. Their father scared her, and there he was, a couple of photos down the line, one taken during the brief time he was a sort of mentor to the Titans. He stood off to one side of the group, just as forbidding and stark a figure as he was in life.

A few years went by, and in that time, Joseph was kidnapped and rendered mute, her mother shot her father, they divorced, Grant died (probably), something _really_ bad happened to Joseph, who also (probably) died, and then her mother died as well. Probably. In the world of costumed adventurers, death was always near but rarely final.

Her therapist told her, "Hurting people make hurting families," as if that explained everything. So her parents were hurting. Who exactly was supposed to be the grown up? Rose only knew that it wasn't her.

The one constant in her life was Wintergreen, and thinking of him, her hand dove into her belt pouch for a stick of sugarless gum. Wintergreen flavor, of course. She unwrapped it, stuck it in her mouth, began to chew. He was a rock in the tumult of their lives. Warm, reliable, safe, sane, supportive—all the things Slade Wilson wasn't.

When Wintergreen died, and he really was dead, permanently and irrevocably ,—that might have hurt the most. She was left alone with her father, who injected her with the same serum which made him what he was, and, and…well, the details got fuzzy during the time she was psychotic. How messed up could one life get?

Yet there were positive things about Slade Wilson, too. Like her mother, he was very good at training people. He was good at taking care of her when she was sick or injured. Sometimes he _was_ a good father. He just didn't seem to be able to sustain it. They were all unbalanced, all the Wilsons—those born into the name, and those who married into it.

Finally Deathstroke turned on her, and the Titans had taken her in.

But still, she yearned to be part of a family again. A_ real_ family, where it wasn't like being shoved together in a sack full of broken glass and rolled around.

There was a very famous saying_: Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it._


	2. Victor Fries: Unfrozen

Through the observation window, Victor Fries watched as the nurse adjusted the IV pump, shutting off the sedative infused drip line which had kept Nora in an induced coma for the last thirteen days. There had been twelve human trials of the new treatment for Huntington's disease and ten successes before he risked reviving his wife. However, after so many crushed hopes and false starts, he judged it more compassionate to let her transition from cryosleep to medicated slumber until they know for sure that he has finally succeeded. Better that she should never know than suffer the disappointment. He could bear it, after all. He had borne decades of it by now.

Two copies of a single defective gene had led to Nora's terrible illness, which would have proven fatal. The treatment itself came in two stages; first, a suppressant to turn off the genes which produced the defective protein that meant the decline of both body and mind, then a symbiotic culture which synthesized good proteins, and all of it would be useless if he had not properly prepared her to begin with. If ice ruptured her cells, bursting and destroying the walls, all he would get back would be…so much spoiled meat.

Yet all signs pointed to the positive—brain activity as normal for a sedated patient, healthy protein markers in her bloodstream—and finally, finally, it was time to shut off the narcotic drip and let her come to. Sleeping Beauty, come to life thanks to true love. The corners of his mouth lifted, curving into a smile. Hair the color of spun gold, eyes like a summer day, skin like…

"I can only imagine what this is like for you," a voice intruded. Victor winced, tried to hide it, and forced the smile back to his face. Bruce Wayne. He owed the man a great deal, it was true, and so he should be tolerant. It would not be for much longer, after all.

"Quite so," he replied, taking refuge in a polite phrase. "I—we—have so much to thank you for."

"Not at all," Wayne shrugged it off affably. "I saw her dance once, years ago._ Giselle_. She was—is—a great artist. Not to mentions that I have always regretted the tangential part I had in…what happened to you, so once you gave up crime…well, that's all water under the bridge now. Say," the man's voice dropped, and he leaned closer.

"Yes," Victor prompted after a pause.

"Your assistant is one of the most exquisite creatures I've ever seen," Wayne confided, glancing at the woman who shared the observation room with them. "But—is there something _wrong_ with her?"

That was about the level of sensitivity he expected of Wayne. All he saw was that Yukie was attractive and that there was something strange about her. Freeze glanced in her direction to see if she had overheard, and concluded she had not. Long-limbed and slender, clad in black save for an apple green scarf at her throat, his assistant was intent on her tablet phone, just as Wayne's adoptive son was on his phone. While he watched, she reached for the bottle of water on the table before her. Watching her move was like watching a film run slightly too fast, every action a trifle jerky and erratic.

"Ms. Kuwano has been in my employ for twelve years. In that time, she has proven herself invaluable," he replied. "Without her efforts, this day might not have come for another five or ten years. It is true that she has a physical handicap, but only very shallow individuals devalue her for it."

"Exactly," Wayne beamed, the implied insult going right over his head, "I mean, that face! Those legs! Kuwano—what is that? Chinese? Japanese?"

"Japanese," Victor Fries answered, curtly.

"And is she single?"

"As far as I am aware, yes." His assistant did not suffer fools gladly, and fools with 'Yellow Fever' least of all. _Let him tell her how much he likes sushi and that Asian women have always fascinated him, and see how far he gets. She'll reply so gently he'll think he's being stroked with a feather, until he starts to bleed_. "But you have reminded me there is a matter that I must speak to her about. If you will excuse me?"

Freeze had brought the smallest portable envirounit with him for this, as the cryocontainer it held was no bigger than a pint thermos. What was within the container took up very little room at that stage. Taking it in both hands, he crossed the room to stand before his assistant.

There was actually quite a lot wrong with Yukime Kuwano, and what_ was_ wrong was unique to the point where her condition deserved a name of its own. The very nearest he had been able to determine was that it mimicked some symptoms of Huntington's, (the reason he had originally recruited her) and certain symptoms of Parkinson's, but without the progressive degeneration those diseases led to. Whatever had caused it, her condition was stable.

Besides the motor function disorder, she suffered from hypohydrosis. She did not, could not, perspire. Since perspiration or to put it more vulgarly, sweating, was the body's way of cooling itself, that meant she was quite uncomfortable in temperatures above the mid-seventies and in danger of heatstroke above ninety. High humidity only worsened the condition. Excessive physical exertion also caused her to overheat.

Conversely, she was able to tolerate much colder conditions than most, one of the reasons he had kept her on. There was even a narrow band of temperature where they were both relatively comfortable—relative being the operative world.

Although hypohydrosis was a life-threatening condition, it was manageable. There was another aspect of her syndrome which was even personally devastating to her. Well, she had fulfilled her side of their agreement. Now it was time for him to fulfill his, and it made him genuinely happy to do so.

"Sir?" she inquired, setting aside her tablet and standing up.

"Yukie," he replied, smiling. "I know we have both waited a very long time for this day, yet at last it is here."

"As you say, sir." She had never entirely shed all formality.

"I have been unfair to you, and I admit it freely. Loyalty and ability such as yours deserved greater trust and recognition on my part. I hope you will forgive me." He held out the cryounit.

"Is that—?" Her breath caught in her lungs.

"Your daughters. Twenty embryos, in case…" In case of miscarriage, failure to implant, failure to thrive? Better not to smear and shadow this bright day with such fears. "In case. I have also kept cell samples of each, should need arise. Gene cleaned and free from anomalies. They will be fertile and as healthy as I could make them. I did introduce a twelve point five percent recombinant factor, so they will not be identical to you or to each other."

Infertility was the final curse of her condition; her ovaries produced hormones but no gametes. He had engineered the embryos from her somatic cells, and since she lacked a 'Y' chromosome, being female, so all the embryos would be, of necessity, female as well. Genetically speaking, her 'daughters' would actually be her sisters, and not far from being her twins.

Her hands were shaking from more than just the disorder as she reached out to take the unit from his hands. Her eyes grew shiny and wet as she wrapped the hunk of metal, glass and plastic in her arms.

To break the somberness of the moment, he essayed a little joke. "I would advise that you not imitate that foolish woman who chose to bear eight in a single gestation."

"Oh, I will not!" she exclaimed. Hugging the cryounit to her chest as she was, she had no hand free to wipe her eyes, and the first two tears welled over. Not like diamonds on her cheeks, no, too round, too organic. "I know better. Dr. Fries—I thank you." She bowed to him.

"Don't thank me—you earned them. Indeed, the slate shows me more in your debt than you are in mine. Twelve years…" Twelve years. He and Nora had been married for eight before she entered cryostasis. Strange to think he and his assistant had been together longer than he and his wife, in terms of waking hours. "…What will you do now? Go back to Japan?"

"To visit, perhaps. Not to stay. I am more Japanese-American than I am Japanese, now. I think I will take a vacation first…I have not had one in years….then decide where I will settle down. Somewhere where the summers are cool and not humid…somewhere peaceful and quiet."

"Nowhere near Gotham, then. You will be in no financial difficulties, I trust? You have been handling my finances long enough."

"No. With my percentage, I will do well enough. I have made investments—but you will have to find another manager now." She looked surprised by the thought.

"I think that after today I will have more time and more attention to give my personal affairs, but I thank you for being concerned. Nora and I… Yukie…is there someone in _your_ life?" He genuinely did not know. He might say he never pried out of respect for her autonomy, but in his happiness he wanted to think she would have some happiness of her own.

"When a man asks such a question I usually have to remind him he is married," she smiled wryly, "but… there is someone I have been seeing for some time now."

"Then I hope you will be happy together. Loneliness is not a natural human condition."

"I thank you, but…I am afraid he is not the sort of man one marries." She looks at him with knowing eyes. "We cannot choose who we will love. It happens or it does not happen."

"I hope you find that someone, then, someday, in lasting happiness. You will…stay in touch, won't you?" How often had he inwardly derided such polite, conventional phrases as meaningless, and now when it mattered, he could find no others.

"Of course! I will send you emails and baby pictures. Beginning with ultrasounds." Her eyes still brimmed, but her smile was radiant.

"I look forward to them," he smiled in return. "But now, I must go to Nora."

"Wait-," she said, turning to set the cryounit down. "Before you go—will you not shake hands?"

"Ah—of course," he said, extending his. "You're not going now, are you? I'm sure Nora will want to meet you."

"Not—not today, sir. Today is for you and her. I will go and make sure the house is ready for her homecoming."

"Ah. An excellent point. What? What's wrong?" She had not taken the proffered hand.

"Without the glove. As a favor." Her face was utterly serious.

He could not imagine why, but it would be petty and ungrateful to refuse. "I suppose—as long as it is brief. I would not want to hurt you." For this most important day, he had worn the simplest cryosuit he had, without servomotors, weapons or enhancements. The change in him would be hard enough to explain to Nora without exacerbating it by turning up fully armored. He unsealed the wrist, and frost instantly began to condense out of the air onto his skin.

Her hand was furnace-hot, and when they touched, vapor curled up like breath seen on January air. One touch, and she drew back her hand.

"I was hardly a person when we met," she explained while he replaced the glove. "Recall how I flinched when people looked at me. I could not meet people's eyes. My prospects for employment were limited to low level positions and menial work. You taught me through example, and in encouragement, how to be human. The slate is clean. There is no debt. But now…she is waiting." Yukie pointed to the observation window, where in the other room, Nora's eyelids were visibly flickering.

_How strange…I never noticed anything odd about her behavior nor had I any idea I inspired anyone in anything, let alone her. You never really know people._

As he left the room he vaguely noticed that the moment he was out of the way, Wayne stepped up to speak to Yukie, but his attention was elsewhere. Drawing up a chair by Nora's bedside, he tenderly took her hand in his gloved one, holding it and caressing it gently with his thumb. He smiled as he remembered the afternoon in his dorm room when, midway through their study session, she had reached over and untied his shoe. They hadn't even been dating then, having met through a group sign-up sheet. Weeks went by, and he'd no idea she was interested in him at all.

"What are you doing?" he asked her as she drew off first his shoe and then his sock.

"I need to borrow this," she explained, jumping up and opening the door, where she looped the sock around the handle.

"Do you know what this means?" she asked, pointing to it.

"Yes. It means 'F…fornication in progress. Do not disturb." He replied, lowering his book.

"Uh-huh. And I don't want to make a liar out of your sock," she closed the door, locked it, and hopped over her study materials to reach inside her purse, drawing out a condom. "So out of those clothes, Victor Fries."

He had been a virgin. She was not, which frankly was all for the best because if he knew there would be blood, that he could not help but hurt her….He had thought it would be furtive, shameful, guilt ridden, but she had taught him that love could lay down with laughter, that it wasn't just pleasurable, but fun.

His smile dimmed. They would never lie together naked again, nor even simply share a bed. _That_ was impossible. But, thanks to certain developments, there were…alternatives. There was more to love and much more to marriage than sex.

Nora stirred, took a deep breath. "Vuh—Vuh-iictor?" she said.

"I'm here, darling. I've been here all along," which was true in the only meaningful way.

"Is it…is it ovver?" she asked slurring the words, squeezing her eyes tight, then blinking.

"Yes. It is. You're well again."

"Oh. Good. C'n I have a sip a watter?"

"Yes. Open your mouth…Here's the straw, do you feel it?"

"Yes. Fanks…" she sipped greedily from the cup as he held it for her.

"Heh, your hand feelz funny." She let the straw slip from her lips.

"I'm wearing gloves."

"Tha's it, then." She opened her eyes and looked at him for the first time. "Vict'r….wha' happened? You look so…."

There were many things she could have said in justice. 'Bald'. 'Blue' 'Mad-Scientisty' were all true and equally valid. What she did say, however, broke his heart, turned his stomach into a bowling ball and his veins to water.

"…**old."**

_This will be a disaster_, he thought.

Time had held still for her for the last three decades.

But not for him.

* * *

According to the Arkham Wiki, Nora Fries suffers from Huntington's Disease, so I went with that.

Incidentally, if you haven't yet read Please Don't Tell My Parents I'm a Supervillain by Richard Roberts, you absolutely should. (Check it out on Amazon, right _**now.**_)

Last, I will be very happy for any comments and or constructive criticism you care to offer. Thank you.


	3. Tim, Yukie: The Uncanny Valley

Tim Drake had no idea why he was there. Sure, Batman and Robin had fought Mr. Freeze plenty of times in the past, that was years ago and, more importantly, he wasn't Robin then. Freeze had been reformed for years now, and he, Tim, understood that Bruce wanted to be there when Nora Fries woke up as a way of closing the books for once and for all—but he was bored out of his skull.

Batman had explained a few things on the way there, "Victor Fries was never a threat on the same scale as Joker or Zsasz, but his genius as an inventor combined with the desperation that drove him made him formidable. He only committed crimes when he needed money to continue his research or when his wife was threatened."

"How do you threaten a woman who's a corpsicle in a freezer?" Tim asked offhanded.

"You threaten to turn off the power," his mentor explained. "He could be vicious, but never without what he perceived as cause, such as betrayal, and he rarely hurt innocent bystanders beyond giving them hypothermia or mild frostbite. However, he also sold cryoweapons to whoever wanted them. Like all weapons manufacturers, he didn't care what people did with his products once they left his hands."

"Okay, that's bad. So-what happened? What made him change? The recidivism among Rogues is practically one hundred percent." Tim asked.

" As long as he confined himself to research, I was willing to leave him alone. Since no new cryoweapons were hitting the market, I turned my attention to more immediate threats, and several years went by before I thought to check up on him. I discovered he had built a new facility on the north side of the bay, so one night I paid him a visit.

"He said his research was progressing well, and since he had sold several of his patents with potential commercial applications, he had no pressing financial concerns. I didn't believe him, but when Lucius Fox looked into it for me, he discovered that a major food conglomerate was now using a patented Fries method of preventing freezer burn and a Japanese corporation had purchased the rights to some sort of remote sensor. The deals included percentages of the gross and stock dividends meaning that if the products make money for the company, they make money for Fries as well. Enough to complete the cure for Huntington's. Enough to save his wife. As Bruce Wayne, I made arrangements for clinical trials and otherwise smoothed the path for him. It seemed the least I could do."

Now they were all sitting in the waiting room, and Tim was still bored. Bruce was talking to Freeze's assistant, a woman about thirty years old. She was good-looking, he guessed, but a little weird. For one thing, she looked like she never sweated, and for another, she moved like somebody who had their reflexes and speed juiced up past the point where they could still move normally.

"Hi. I'm Bruce Wayne."

She smiled. "Yes, I know. I'm Yukime Kuwano. Please allow me to thank you for the help and support you have given Doctor Fries. I know that without your influence and intervention the scientific community would not have given his research serious consideration." She made a brief bow.

"You don't have to thank me. Whatever contribution I made is nothing compared to–well," He gestured to Nora Fries' room. "But anyhow, how can you possibly have been his assistant for the last twelve years? What did he do, recruit you straight out of middle school?"

_Twelve years? And she has enhanced reflexes. Yet we haven't come across her until now. Either she doesn't fight, or she has wicked superstealth moves._

She smiled again. Her English was pretty much perfect, but she had the trace of an accent and she spoke like somebody who had learned English instead of growing up speaking it. "You are very kind, but I am older than I look to most Americans. There is no great secret to it. I eat a great deal of brown rice, steamed vegetables and a little fish, drink plenty of green tea, and avoid sun exposure. I even use a parasol when I go out of doors."

"Well, whatever you're doing, it's working. How did you wind up working for him? I'm sure it's a fascinating story."

Put together, Yukime Kuwano reminded Tim of something one of his science teachers had said about humanoid robots: that when something was too human looking but not human enough, it fell into the 'Uncanny Valley' and creeped people out. It wasn't just robots that could do it—so could dolls, puppets, and clowns. Plus if you lived anywhere near where you could run into Joker or Harley Quinn, it was a sure bet that clowns creeped you out.

"It is not easily explained" she said, not looking at Bruce, but at Fries as he held his wife's hand. "I was newly arrived in Gotham City, without friends here or resources. I will not trouble you with the tale of how I came to be so, but being so, I was still better off than where I was. One day I saw an advertisement in the newspaper for a clinical study of a new experimental medication for people with symptoms like mine. They wanted healthy volunteers to undergo a two week stay while undergoing the trial. Room, board, and financial compensation would be provided. I did not know enough about America or about how such studies are usually conducted to be suspicious."

Tim pretended to still be preoccupied with his phone, while eavesdropping for all he was worth_. _

_Wow. She was very lucky. Gotham usually grinds up people that naive for hamburger_. _Her guardian angels must have put in for overtime that week._

"That… could have been very dangerous for you," Batman replied. "Didn't you want to run when you found out a…well, there's no other way of putting it, a supervillain, because he was one then, was conducting it?"

"I was very close to being homeless, and although we have strange events, phenomena and people in Japan, they're very different than Gotham City. For example, giant reptiles coming out of the harbor, towns which undergo a forty-five degree dimensional shift and cannot be reached, a suburb of Tokyo which is now walled off and uninhabited due to ghosts. They kept killing people on about the same scale as the Joker here. Even burning down the original house did not end it. The curse spread like a terrible virus."

_Well, I'd heard Japan was different. This proves it._

"Ghosts?" he scoffed lightly.

"People who didn't die or stop existing as they should have, then. People who transformed. Like Poison Ivy, or even like Doctor Fries. Stranger things happen. To return to my tale, I answered the advertisement and met Doctor Fries. He was brusque but not unkind, and explained what the medicine was intended to do and why. He took my medical history, did scans, tested tissue samples, and paid me in advance. I took the medications, and nothing happened. Doctor Fries lost interest in me. When the two weeks had elapsed, I expected to be told to leave, but," she shrugged, "no one told me to go, no one demanded my room or barred me from meals and since I had nowhere else to go, I stayed.

"Since I was eating the doctor's rice, I began to work for it, cleaning things and organizing the storeroom, working at night and when no one was around. He had some henchmen at the time but they were quite unmotivated and lacked initiative, except when it came to damaging things." She reflected a moment, "And damaging people as well, so there was a great deal of work to be done. This went on for some time until the henchmen undid work it had taken me hours to finish, not out of carelessness or by accident, but because they thought it was amusing. Then I—what is the phrase?—went off on them.

"The shouting drew Doctor Fries' attention, which was the last thing I wanted, but there he was. When he understood what the problem was, he asked me what I did around there, and after I told him he asked what I was paid. I told him I wasn't, I just needed a place to stay. Then he asked the ringleader what _he_ did, and what he was paid. He looked back at me, and said, 'You get that, double, retroactive to when you got here. You,' to the ringleader, 'Get out. The rest of you can either clear this up to her satisfaction or you can follow him.' That was how I officially entered his employ, and since then I have gradually assumed more responsibilities. As to what exactly I do—I simply do what I see needs to be done."

_Batman always said Mr. Freeze wasn't an evil man and his story was more tragic than anything else. I'm glad he's right. We could use a win for once._

"But then—that means you were working for him back when he was still committing crimes," Batman pointed out. "Obviously it all worked out eventually," he gestured to the observation window, "but surely it isn't what you went to school for."

"What I went to school for," she repeated, and her friendly demeanor chilled a few degrees. "I studied finance at Tokyo University, and I graduated in the top ten percent of my class. Would you like to know what my last job in Japan was, before I came to Gotham City?" She continued without waiting for a reply.

_A little anger still there, ya think?_

"I worked in a factory packing take-away lunch boxes for convenience stores. You see, Mr. Wayne, not only does a woman with a disability not fit corporate images, my particular disability ah—'creeps people out.' I do not believe Doctor Fries has ever noticed that I am creepy, and if he has, he doesn't care. Oh!"

She was staring at the window, where Nora's lips were moving, her hand tightening in Victor's. Glancing at the action within, he looked back at Yukie. She was smiling.

Tim thought of the smile on paintings of the Virgin Mary, as she cuddled her son. Bruce's family had a couple of Madonna And Child paintings by Raphael hanging in the library. That was the smile on Yukime Kuwano's face now, sweet and tender, yet heartbreaking too. At that moment, Tim had no idea how important she would turn out to be to the future of the Titans, and to one Titan in particular, but the feeling in that smile reached him and impressed him.

_She isn't creepy after all,_ he thought._ She's just kind of stone faced around strangers._

"I don't feel right watching this," she said abruptly, rising to her feet and taking whatever it was that Fries gave her. "It's too like voyeurism. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Wayne, and you are a very good listener. I thank you again, but I—I must go."

Ever a gentleman, Bruce stood up, and watching them, Tim missed the moment when the smile on Victor Fries' face slipped and shattered into a thousand pieces…

Once outside the clinic and on the sidewalk, Yukie shifted the cryounit to her hip as she pulled out her phone and speed dialed a particular number. "Hello, Slade? It's Yukie. Do you have any commitments for eight weeks beginning after, um, the ninth of next month? If not, I should like to take you to Japan with me. I warn you, I can either pay your fee or pay for the trip, not both. You are too expensive as a gigolo," her voice had a laugh in it. "Call me when you get a chance. Good-bye."


	4. Nora Fries: Upon Waking

Victor recoiled as though she had struck him.

"I'm sorry!" Nora cried out, (although it came out sounding more like 'Ahm sawwy'), "Wha's wrong?"

"Finding the cure took… a long time," he said, simply. "And there were…unforeseen complications."

Whatever those unforeseen complications were, they had to be bad. "How long?"

"It's the year 2013," her husband admitted.

It was not possible. It simply wasn't. Yesterday it had been 1984, and she and Victor were only thirty-two, with all the best part of their lives yet to come, their own home and their children and the Nobel Prize and… Anyhow, he _couldn't_ be sixty-two, that was older than her _father_, and he didn't look more than fifty or so and she wouldn't_ let_ him be that old, and...

Wrenching her mind away from that spiral down into hysteria, she instead forced a bright smile on her face and a cheerful tone into her voice, as she had so often done during her illness, and said, "Wow, 2013—I guess that means we're all living in the future now? Are there flying cars now and robot maids, like on 'The Jetsons'?"

"Flying cars? Only a few, and their use is mainly restricted to costumed adventurers. Frankly, the average American driver is dangerous enough at ground level without adding the ability to leave the ground. Robot maids? No. The few robots intended for household use are small, simple devices. Self-propelling vacuum cleaners, for example. The real developments have been in the world of computers," Victor explained, in his element now.

Talking about science had always been so much easier for him, which made all forms of social interaction awkward, but she'd loved him all the more for being so sweet and goofy and clueless and _him_. He'd been this nutty professor in training—except he wasn't in training anymore.

"You'll recall how huge the mainframe supercomputer at the University was, how it occupied several rooms. At that time, we were only just beginning to form a computer network among similar institutions to share information. These days, a device with hundreds of times the memory, the processing power, and the speed of that mainframe is small enough to hold in your hand. Not to mention that it can also take pictures and send text messages around the world. Here, in your bedside table—this is for you. It's loaded with a tutorial program to teach you how to use it. "

He pulled open a drawer, removed a slim box, and handed it to her. "Apple I-Pad Air," she read, looking at the package. "16 GB—uh, wow. I have no idea what all that means, but—where are my mom and dad? And Michelle?"

Wrong thing to ask. "Your father died in 1997, your mother in 2001. Your sister Michelle was invited, but she was skeptical about the chances of success, and she and I have not kept in touch over the years. I'm sure if you contact her yourself..." He let it trail off.

"Oh. Okay." Brightness, lighthearted, smiling. Victor hurt so much already, she could _see _that, and she would not, could not make it worse for him. "So—tell me more about the world of 2013. I guess the Soviets never dropped the bomb. What else has happened?"

"There is no Soviet Union any longer. In 1991, it dissolved back into separate countries. The world still has problems, however—neither notably better nor worse, simply different. China has risen in prominence and power, but their base is economic rather than military. The current President of the United States is Barack Obama—.

She interrupted with a laugh. "_Barack Obama_? What kind of a name is _that_?"

"African-American." Victor replied.

"African-Ame—are you saying the_ President_, _the_ President of _the_ United States, is_ black_?"

"Yes. He is."

"That's—." What could she say? If all black people were like the family on The Cosby Show, that would be fine, but…

Nora was not racist; she was simply unaccustomed to diversity. The world of ballet being what it was, the domain of the upper and upper middle classes, who could afford both expensive lessons and expensive season tickets, had, back in 1984, been predominantly white. So had the college and university she attended. Thirty years of cultural change had happened while she slept in the ice.

"—uh, well, if he's a good president, then that's what matters, right?"

"I would say he was an adequate president. Nora, I appreciate that you are trying to put the best face on things that you can, but there's something I have to tell you. Please stop for a moment, and let me try to explain. This is very difficult and painful—."

_Please,_ she prayed. _Let him say he has a wife and kids. Let him have had some __**happiness**__, because I __**know**__ him and I __**know **__he could just have retreated from the world and done nothing but work on a cure. If this is real…if this isn't some freezer dream I'm having, if it's __**been**__ thirty years and he gave up __**his whole life**__…I can't bear it. I just can't_.

"Is there—someone else?" she asked, hoping the answer was yes.

"Of course not," he said, sounding surprised and even a little offended. "You're the only woman I have ever looked at with love."

"I didn't mean—I mean, thirty years, that's a long time."

"Never." He vowed, then sighed. "If it were only that simple. You've noticed the suit I'm wearing, of course."

"Yeah, it's—kind of hard to miss. I figured I was like the boy in the bubble right now, and you couldn't risk exposing me to germs. The glass or whatever it is in the helmet makes you look blue, did you know that?" She tried to smile when she said that, but all her face could manage was a weak twitch.

"It's not the glass. You see, some years ago, I accepted an employment offer from Gothcorp, with the personal guarantee of its president, Ferris Boyle," he said the name with a snarl, as if it were a curse, "that I would have the resources and time to work on a cure for you. Instead, he reneged, and when I continued despite his objections, he threatened to depower your cryopod. We fought, and there was an accident—no, not an accident. Boyle tried to kill me by throwing me into my chemicals, and my metabolism was affected. Permanently affected. My natural body temperature is now well below the freezing point of saltwater. Without this suit, I would be extremely uncomfortable in here; without the diffusion pump which is installed in the region of my heart and a constant feed of cryochemicals, I would die of hyperthermia—heatstroke—in minutes."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "That isn't possible. It's not _true_, this isn't _real_, I won't_** let**_ it be real—."

"Nora!" he cried out. "Please! This is torture enough as it is."

"I don't believe it," she made an effort to rein in her emotions. "That k-kind of thing doesn't happen to real people."

"I assure you, it does." His voice was weary, so very weary.

"Prove it, then," she said, stubborn.

"Very well," he breathed, doing something to his glove at the wrist, and drawing it off. As his skin was exposed to the air, frost started forming on it, like on the outside of a pint of ice cream fresh out of the freezer. He reached out for the pitcher of water on the nightstand, stuck one finger in it, and it solidified immediately. She could _feel_ the wave of cold coming off his skin.

"Oh, God," she whispered. Her heart ached with sympathetic pain. "Oh, Victor. How can you stand it? And to go on for _years _like this…"

"You," he replied. "The sure and certain knowledge that if I were to die or give up, no one else would ever bother to revive you even when there was a cure. The thought of you sustained me."

"Oh, Victor." Where were all her words, where were her feelings? Everything was very remote and faraway.

"It's all right, my darling," he said, even as he pulled the glove back on. "It was very difficult at first, in many ways, but it is…a livable condition. I may as well tell you the rest. I will never be able to father a child, not even through artificial insemination or in vitro. My seminal fluid contains no motile spermatozoa. There have, however, been tremendous advances in genetic engineering, and—."

He had stopped because she was laughing and couldn't stop. "That is _so_ you, Victor! Nobody else I ever met, nobody else in the _world_ would put it like that. Even our professors would have just come out and said, 'My sperm are all dead.'" Then everything became very weird and woozy because Victor had called the nurse, who came and gave her a sedative.

When she was calm again, he told her, "I'll leave you now so you can rest, but I want you to know I will give you your freedom. No judge would hesitate to grant you a divorce under these circumstances. Fortunately I am quite well off these days, and of course half my assets are yours. You won't have to worry."

"I don't want a divorce," she said. "There's a whole long list of things I want, and a divorce isn't anywhere near the top. I want my parents. I want to go back to sleep and never wake up. I want all of this to never, never have happened. I want to stop hurting. But I do love you, Victor, and, and…don't leave me alone here in the future." All else was lost in the arms of the drug.

* * *

A/N: So why is there so much about Nora and Victor Fries in the story? I promise it will all connect up eventually.

Ah, and to my loyal reviewers Swordstitcher, Riksie-Dixie, Tev, and Bat-teen28, my sincerest thanks.


	5. Slade: Intimacies

A/N: This chapter assumes you know what two happily consenting adults might get up to in a hotel room without going into specific details.

* * *

Sometime the next day:

Slade Wilson got out of the taxi in front of the Imperial Hotel, glancing up at the winter sky as he hefted his overnight bag. Yukie had suggested the rendezvous, so she also chose the place. _Rm. 1625 Imperial_, she had texted, and here he was.

On the face of it, their liaison was exactly what all men supposedly want and women supposedly do not—no-strings-attached sex without demands—outside of the bedroom, that was. Yet he—his divorced wife dead, his surviving children estranged, the closest thing he had to a friend dead also—had nothing else in his life approaching a relationship. He might not even have permitted himself that, once the initial attraction was sated, but she did fill a deeper need than just the physical. They had been seeing each other for more than two years now.

Entering the cool modern lobby, he ignored the doorman and maitre d'hôtel, heading directly for the elevator. Yukie met him at the door in a long white robe. "Shower first?" she suggested, smiling. She was not seductive in any conventional way, and definitely did not fit any of the fetishized images Western men had of Asian women—she was too strange for that, too individual. Yet she held definite attractions for him, not least of which was his eventual plan for her. It was a shame about her weakness to heat, but as he had no intention of taking her out in the field, it didn't matter.

"Certainly," he replied. Two adults who knew each other well, and knew what to do for each other— after the shower, and what went on in there, and then in the bedroom, (enhanced strength and stamina came with distinct advantages, especially when a man was over fifty),Yukie laughed, low and throaty, and they rolled apart. Their exertions had brought a rose-pink flush to her face and other places which was very becoming.

"So," he said, reaching for the whiskey she had thoughtfully placed on the bedside table, and pouring each of them a splash, "what is that Freeze has going in Japan?"

"Nothing," she said, taking the glass from his hand. "The terms of our bargain were fulfilled as of yesterday afternoon. Nora Fries is alive, awake, and cured, and I have been compensated."

"Is she, now? I didn't know that was the deal between you." He propped himself up on one elbow. "What did you get, after twelve years?"

"That is between him and me," she answered. "But the end is an amiable one. I am not running off immediately. That would be irresponsible and rude. I do not believe Doctor Fries truly understands how much I took on over the years, so I shall stay long enough to put all in order and leave detailed notes."

"I imagine he is ecstatic," Slade commented.

"Would not anyone be, to see the work of thirty years come to fruition?" she countered.

"An answer that isn't an answer—how like you. Is he going to have anything to _live_ on now? For that matter, are _you_?"

"Now that is a matter of public record and I do not mind talking about it. There will be income from various patents, of which my share is twenty percent. Most of them will mean little to you as they are only one step in a manufacturing process, but the most profitable is Sensorskin.®"

"Sensorskin®?" He sat up, the better to stare at her. "You mean the stuff they make those sex suits out of? Victor Fries, the man who spent over thirty years in faithful chastity to a cryocorpse invented _the_ way to have sex without bodily contact? _That _casts a whole new light upon his character."

About four years earlier, the Itachi Corporation, well known manufacturer of erotic devices, had debuted an entirely new product line, garments (and other things) made of materials coated with a pseudofluid called Sensorskin® which both transmitted and received tactile sensations—in other words, the sense of touch, excluding the sensation of temperature. Ranging from the minimalist glove and swimsuit sets all the way up to full-body suits with all the accessories including virtual reality visors and priced accordingly, the suits had suddenly made it possible to have remote sex without touching, without meeting face-to-face, without even knowing the gender of the other party, and most especially, without risk of pregnancy or disease.

For those for whom even that was too much like a relationship, they could also be programmed. Furthermore, they were even washable, an extremely important feature given the use to which they were put, but they didn't last very long—the psuedofluid deteriorated within three to six months depending on method of washing and frequency of use.

The suits were exactly as popular and exactly as controversial as one would expect. Itachi shot up into the ranks of Starbucks and Microsoft, and sales were only improving with no end in sight.

"He did not invent it with that purpose in mind, and it is also used for artificial limbs. He only wanted better perception when he had on gloves. My role was to come up with commercial applications, research the market, and broker the best deal possible. I saw the potential in Sensorskin® and chose to offer it to Itachi rather than an American corporation not because I am nationalistic but because Americans are still rather hypocritical when it comes to sex," she explained. "The country of my birth is not. After all, we invented both tentacle porn and the used panty vending machine."

That drew a belly laugh out of the stone-hearted killer for hire. "Does Freeze know what his invention is being used for?"

"Yes," Yukie replied after a silent but eloquent moment in which her face said quite clearly, 'Yes, and he nearly combusted out of sheer embarrassment.'

"Have you ever used one of those suits?"

"Why would I need to?" she asked in reply, drawing her toes up along his calf. "In truth, no. I have not used it for sex. Lab work is another matter."

"Has he explored the more recreational uses?" Wilson referred to Fries.

"Even if I knew I would not say," she answered primly.

"Well, he ought to. It's the only way he'd ever be able to touch his wife again. Tell me, is the three-to-six month lifespan real, or is it by design to keep the money rolling in?"

"The receptors gradually degrade upon contact with moisture," she said, "but they are not looking very hard for a solution to the problem."

"I'll bet they're not! Wait a moment—even if you and he are only getting a fraction of what Itachi makes, you must be pulling in a fortune. Why then were you competing for the prize at Cobblepot's the night we met?"

Again the pensive look as she worked out what to tell him, and then, "You could easily find this out from the Penguin himself, so I will tell you. There was so much owed to Mr. Cobblepot and several others that every month I despaired of scraping together enough to cover the interest. You can imagine upon what terms they offered credit. To wipe out the entire debt at once was worth the risk."

"You could have been killed. You nearly were."

"That would have been inconvenient, true. But I was not and I won."

"Freeze wasn't there," he remembered, sitting up. "Did he know what you were doing that night?"

"I…chose not to tell him. It would have reflected badly on my ability to handle his finances."

"Does he know now?"

"If he does, he has never shown any sign of it."

Wilson shook his head, regarding his lover. "You're a well of secrets…So, if this trip to Japan has nothing to do with him, then what is it about? And why go in January?"

"For the off-season rates," she shrugged. "I have long planned to return there for reasons of my own, and I asked you simply for the pleasure of your company. There is no 'work' involved for you. We have never done anything of the kind, after all. You need not worry that I mean to make a show of you to my family and friends. I have no friends there, and my family cast me off long ago."

"Why? What happened?" This was more than he had learned of her in two years; she never volunteered information about herself.

"I was born flawed, I never became socially presentable no matter how much money and instruction was spent upon me, I couldn't hold on to my husband or give them grandchildren at that time, and I couldn't find work in keeping with my family's position in the community," she said, finishing her whisky in one swallow. "They were as relieved I chose to emigrate as I was."

"So you're divorced?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "but I don't want to bore you with the tale."

"I'm not bored," he reached over to stroke her cheek, curve the corner of her mouth. Her skin was velvet.

"I met him on a miai," she said, her gaze unfocusing to look into the past. "You're fluent in my language. Do you know the word? No? It's very old-fashioned now. Only losers resort to miai, these days. If you know you want to marry but you are not socially adept, you go to a matchmaker to meet someone of like mind. They, ah, 'fix you up' with prospective spouses—this is not to meet someone with whom you can fall in love. It is to meet someone you can tolerate.

"His family had been brewing sake, real sake,_ good_ sake, in the traditional way for nearly three hundred years, small batches, by hand. Most sake in Japan these days is very bad—full of preservatives and additives, enriched with pure alcohol and then watered down again. The big companies like it because they can get three times as much sake out of the same amount of rice. But he wanted to expand, to keep making good sake but with modern technology. I liked his passion and enthusiasm. He liked that my family was prepared to invest in his company to see me settled. You might say I was marrying his business and he was marrying my money.

"Three years later, he lost patience. The profits were respectable but not large enough for him. He wanted to exploit the brand name by doing as the national brands do, tripling output at the expense of quality. I refused to let him do that, because he could not compete on their level and there was no surer way to ruin the business entirely. He said that I was not only barren, I was emasculating him and so he was divorcing me. I had had quite enough of him by then, and would have been glad to see the last of him, until I found out about the girl who was to be his second wife."

She paused, and he prompted, "A friend of yours?"

"My younger sister. She was twenty. That was how he avoided trouble with my family over the money. They pressured her into agreeing."

"That had to have hurt." _Her family must have put up a __**great**__ deal of money-yet it seems there ought to be more to it than that. Yet Yukie believes it. _

"Not because she was replacing me. We were very close. I was a terrible disappointment and an embarrassment to everyone else in the family—father, mother, brother—only she and my grandmother had any affection for me. So I had ruined my own life by bringing that idiot into the family? That was no reason to ruin hers, too. But they married, and within five years, the brewery was no more. They stayed married, though, and have four children now. They kept at it until they got a boy. I—'creep' her on social media, so that is how I know. I have no contact with them otherwise."

"You don't think they would be impressed by how you turned out?" Whatever she had been like when she was younger, Yukie was now sophisticated, cultured, resourceful and utterly calm even when under fire (their dates were sometimes quite exciting), surely qualities any family would appreciate.

"I didn't accomplish anything in Japan, so it doesn't count…Do you think you can come with me?" she asked, a touch of wistfulness in her voice.

He considered it. "I might be able to arrange some work for myself while we're there. You won't be bothered should I disappear for a few hours here and there?"

"Not at all. I am sure there are times I will want time alone," she replied.

"Good. Give me a few days, and I'll give you a more definite answer. What are these reasons of your own, if not to see friends and family?"

She settled in against him, spooning. "I am going in search of ghosts, supernatural beings, and haunted places. There are plenty to choose from in Japan, and my whole itinerary is planned around my quest."

"You mean to say you believe in ghosts?"

"**_There_**, that is one major cultural difference between us. There are many stranger things in this world, and you scoff at ghosts. No, I do _not_ believe in ghosts, no more than I believe in this bed we're lying on. They exist, whether one believes in them or not."

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much, Riksy-Dixie, SwordStitcher, and Tev!


	6. Yukie: Jian Wu

_He fights sleep the way he fights any other enemy_, Yukie thought, looking at her sleeping lover. The difference was that sleep always won sooner or later, and it would be better for him if he were beaten by it more often. The human brain wasn't meant to function at ninety percent capacity all the time, neurons firing like sparks in a blast furnace; he needed downtime more than most people.

It wasn't until their fifth or sixth tryst that Slade allowed himself to fall asleep in the same room with her, and even then he nearly shot her when she got up to use the toilet in the middle of the night, that first time. Nowadays he didn't stir so much as a finger should she get up and walk around the room, although he still slept with one hand always on a weapon, automatically switching hands when he happened to roll over in bed, still fast asleep. She wondered if he slept that way at home, if he thought of any place as home, and suspected it didn't matter where he was or who he was with.

She did not know if she was the only person he was sleeping with, in either sense of the word, but she did know that between the two senses, sex and sleep, the latter was the deeper intimacy for him.

In sleep that harshly handsome face was still grim. It only softened a little when he laughed, for that moment, and set again immediately. She smiled, remembering the first time she made him laugh, early on. She asked him, quite seriously, if he minded that she was just using him for sex.

The _look_ on his face was beyond words before he laughed and replied, "Be my guest!" She didn't think he realized what a relief it was to her that he left and went home, leaving her to think her own thoughts and live her own life without all the work that went into a relationship. What there was between them was so simple, so easy-going that it hardly seemed real to her.

He'd thrown the covers partly off, and the ambient light of a downtown Gotham night silvered the shiny patches of scar tissue here and there—no new ones anywhere, and she had had a good look. She was glad he hadn't been injured again. He was a man whose life story was written on his body. The eye patch lay on the bedside table—was it possible the lid drooped less? A parting gift from his late ex-wife, he'd said, and told her the eye might regenerate if he lived long enough.(Unspoken was the implication that he would not.)

But if the late Adeline Kane Wilson had marked him, so too had Yukie. The scar where she had come close to cutting off his ear still remained as well, but in turn she still bore the line on her throat.

_What a way to meet_…

Waiting in line outside the defunct steel mill in the near dark, she looked around at the others. She was perfectly comfortable with the frigid wind of a late October night gusting around her, tugging at her furisode sleeves like a persistent little sister, but most of her fellow competitors looked bitten to the bone. Perhaps it was apprehension, not the cold—entirely the wrong state of mind to bring to this contest. Another fighter entered the side door, and they all shuffled forward a few paces.

This was the night of the World Annual Jian Wu competition, held for the first time ever in Gotham City. While Jian Wu was a recognized martial arts school, matches using real blades were illegal in every country on Earth that had ever heard of the practice. Hence this surreptitious, secretive match.

Most of the eighty-odd fighters in line were men—three quarters to four-fifths, she estimated. Was she the only one who brought her own drummer? Tommy Chen stood by his diminutive grandmother, who had come along to act as her attendant, carrying bandages, towels and cold-packs. There were specific rules about attire and weapons allowed for Jian Wu—no protective gear or armor, blades to be no shorter than the length of their wielder's forearm or twelve inches, whichever was longer, and no longer than the length of the arm from pit to wrist or three feet, whichever was shorter. Consequently a number of those assembled were either wearing singlets or completely bare-chested, fooled by the day's balmy temperature.

Given that most were men, as she had already observed, and that almost to a man they were extremely well built, whether bulky or lean muscled, the view was quite pleasing to her eyes. If only they were less goose-pimpled…

Another fighter entered, another yard's progress. She checked her swords again. Butterfly swords, they were called here. They were both shorter and wider than the typical Jian blade, but better suited to her arm length. Some people preferred a quillion that would only trap an opposing blade, but she liked to be able to flip the blade, laying the blunt edge against her forearm to strike with a forward elbow. That was especially good when fighting in close against an opponent of greater height, as most men were.

_Enough_, she told herself. _My swords are the best I could afford. They are well within the regulations and they will serve_. _Fidgeting does me no good and makes me conspicuous_. That had been the whole point of all the years of training.

The doctors had told her parents that it was possible she might outgrow the jerky little movements she made, especially if she developed a high degree of coordination, so from earliest childhood she had taken dance and martial arts, throwing herself into them in the hope of wringing a nod and a kind word from her father, a hug from her mother. Then it was with the determination to conquer her affliction, to be just like everyone else. Implicit in all of this was that if she couldn't control it, then it was because she just wasn't working hard enough, she was lazy, she liked the attention. She wanted to make them all as miserable as she was herself…

The line moved forward a few paces more. The training worked to the extent that she learned how to hold completely still, that she could move with a degree of grace. It worked to the extent where she won regional competitions for Jian Wu—the legal version fought with blunt wood swords. She might have gone further in the sport had it not been for her other medical issue, the inability to perspire. Strenuous activity also raised the body temperature, after all. No one wanted a team mate who had to be baby-sat.

She would not be there were it not for the debt. Fight nights at Cobblepot's were usually no-holds-barred melees—nasty, dirty, and crude, much like the participants. Combatants went in knowing they could potentially be maimed, crippled, even killed, but they went in all the same—that was part of the fun. Needless to say, they were highly illegal as well, so part of the entry fees went to pay off the authorities.

Sometimes, however, he played host to a special match. On those occasions the entry fee went up much higher, but the event attracted a much better class of spectator as well as participant. Ordinarily Yukie would have been no more interested in attending, much less participating, than she would be in lancing someone's seborrheic boil, no matter how large the prize was, but since it was Jian Wu, there she was.

Another fighter in the door, and she was next. Squinting her eyes against the sudden flare of light, she went in to register.

Deirdre, the Penguin's current assistant, was first behind the desk. "Fighting alias?" she asked, not looking up, and snapped her gum.

"Yuki-Onna," she said.

Hearing a familiar voice, Deirdre looked up. "Yukie? Whatta you doin' here?"

"I'm entering the match," she replied.

"Since when are you a fightah?"

"I've trained in Jian Wu since I was in elementary school, and you know the extent of the debt."

"So you're doin' this for Freeze? Yer otta yer mind! Look, you're a good kid. The entry fee's the same whether you're going in as a spectatah or a fightah. Go back out, come in the other way, get yerself a seat, place a few bets, have fun. You look real nice in that kimono and the doodads in your hair, nobody'll give ya a second look." Deirdre pleaded.

"I am here for the Sword Dance," she told the woman firmly. "Yuki-Onna." She spelled it out.

"Okay, it's your funeral," Deirdre conceded. "Whazzat mean? I don't need it for entry, I'm just curious."

"It's a supernatural being, a snow spirit. She entices men to their deaths in the snow."

"Gotcha. Next of kin?" She punctuated the sentence with another snap of gum.

"Put down Doctor Fries, please."

"Okay…Any enhancements, powers, stuff like that? Use of any ya don't declare is an automatic disqualification, and using flight or levitation is, too."

"Augmented speed and reflexes," she said. After her disastrous marriage, she did a desperate thing. With her settlement money, she went to Thailand, where, it was said, there were clinics that could give _anyone_ powers, even if they didn't have the meta gene. Not flight, no. Flying was beyond their ability to give. But strength was a matter of muscle tissue, reflexes depended on nerve fibers, and intellect on neurotransmitters. For the equivalent of fifty thousand dollars, she bought a vial of sticky, resinous liquid, gulped it down in the back room of a place in which she would not have kenneled a dog.

It worked, after a fashion, but it did nothing to cure what was now called 'mild ataxia due to cerebellar hypoplasia'. The ability to move faster, leap higher—all overheated her even faster.

"Alll right…" Deirdre drew out the words. "How many people ya killed, lifetime total?"

"None. My school emphasized maiming over killing."

Deirdre groaned. "I can still rip up the sheet."

"Excuse me," the sword inspector in the next chair leaned over. "The hour grows old, many still wait to enter, and if your friend cannot make it through the six elimination rounds then she will be in no danger from anyone but herself. If she can attain the seventh level, she deserves to be there."

"Okay," Deirdre contented herself with one last frown. "Ever participated in the World Championship before?"

"No."

"The entry fee is one hundred thousand US currency, cash only." Silently Yukie passed over the bulky envelope with one thousand one hundred dollar bills. The assistant could count money practically at a glance. "All there, all right. Good luck, girl."

"Your swords," the sword inspector requested. "Hudiedao," he said, calling them by their name in Mandarin. "Carbon steel, hybrid-style blades twelve and a half inches long. Weight…" He went on to perform several tests, including swabbing the blades for toxins and inspecting the hilts for spring-loaded spikes. Finally he handed them back, saying, "Any alterations made to these blades between now and the end of the match, including sharpening or swapping for uninspected blades, will be grounds for immediate disqualification. Good luck."

The next station took a drop of blood for analysis, pronouncing her to be 'Not nonhuman,' (apparently the standard way of putting it) before sending her to the next, where they checked her clothing and gear for contraband. "Use of mechanisms or gadgetry will be grounds for immediate disqualification," she was warned. Eventually she was allowed through into the waiting area.

Allegiances among the Rogues' Gallery of Gotham City shifted like the sands on a beach; for this event, the Penguin had arranged to use the Sionis steel mill, no longer in active production. The loading dock had been converted into a ring for the occasion, as it had a lower floor in the center and elevated sides. Now the sides had stadium seating protected by Plexiglas splash shields, lest the spectators wind up with severed fingers in their laps and blood on their designer clothes. Up above, the supervisor's office was the VIP area, from which the judges would scrutinize every move made.

Looking around at her fellow dancers, she counted fourteen other women and more than forty men. She had been somewhere around the sixtieth in line. Already there was a distinct odor of masculinity in the room, heavy in the air, and since most men with pretentions in the martial arts were on high-protein mea- based diets, it was not the most pleasant smell in the world—flatulence and meat grease mixed with sweat.

One man paced the room like a zoo animal gone made with caging. "How come there's so many gashes entered in this?" he suddenly asked of the room.

Yukie, for whom English was a third language, had no idea what he meant by 'gash', but someone else explained in his response, "Jian Wu makes no distinctions in rank, gender, race, nationality or faith. All that matters is the dance. Smaller mass and suppleness can more than compensate for strength and bulk. Last year's world champion, also world champion four times over the last decade, is Lady Shiva. She is _also_ one of the judges this evening."

"Uh,' mumbled the pacer. "Whadda know?" The other fighters exchanged a glance which said, 'He'll be lucky if he passes the first round.'

So 'gash' was crude, derogatory slang for a woman. She must remember that. Misogyny, even here. A number of the female competitors were wearing garb that looked like some fetishist's idea of a ninja, lasciviously tight halter tops and leggings, tiny face masks, and tattoos to rival the Yakusa. The other women wore even less. Under the furisode, which she would shed before the match started, she was dressed in a modest white tunic over an opaque sports bra and knee length leggings, all of it selected for ease of movement, not display.

No one likes to be the only one at the party who dressed all wrong. How was her gender to escape objectification if they participated in it? On the other hand, the men were doing a decent job of objectifying themselves as well. There was more meat on display than in a butcher shop. Suddenly the room seemed even more stifling.

"Excuse me," Yukie said to her drummer and his grandmother. "I must go and place my bets."

She followed a trail of crude paper signs to the on-site betting office, passing several of Penguin's men in the halls.

"Whozat?" she heard one whisper to another.

"She henches for Freeze. Dunno her name."

"Not bad looking, but is she real or is she actually a robot? That's gotta be a robot."

"Nah, she's alive, but rumor has it Freeze put her together outta spare parts from his fridge." The two snickered.

Her sometimes perverse sense of humor flared, and she turned, making eye contact with the pair. Keeping her voice low but speaking very clearly, she said, "There is absolutely _no truth_ to the rumor I once sawed a man's foot off with piano wire in a jealous rage." There had been no such rumor before, but there would be now.

They froze. She nodded and passed through to the betting office, where she hesitated before placing fifty thousand on herself to win and fifty thousand more on a rolling accumulator that she would reach the seventh level. Whatever she won in passing each level would then be bet on reaching the next, and depending on the odds, she might even fare better that way. She glanced at the odds board there, where every dancer had a listing. As an unknown and a first time participant, the odds against her were quite high. Handing over the money, she collected her slips. Next to the board was a monitor which showed each newly arrived combatant along with the names and the stats Deirdre had collected, details about any enhancements and so forth.

A sudden outburst from the bookies stopped her. "Holy shit!" "_He's_ here? Clear the board, clear the whole goddamn motherfuckin' board!"

The face on the monitor was that of a man who did not look old but was certainly not young. His hair was silver grey, and an eye patch covered one eye. He did not look as though he had ever had a single happy day in his life. The name on the screen flashed: **Deathstroke. Enhancements: Augmented strength. Augmented speed. Augmented…** The list went on for quite a while. Apparently he had augmented everything. Then: **First appearance in the Championship. Body count: Redacted.**

Glancing at the board, she saw they had added his name. His odds of winning were five to one _in favor._ Everybody else's odds had lengthened by a factor of ten.

* * *

TBC:… Yeah, I didn't think this was going to be the next chapter, but guess what? My eternal thanks to Swordstitcher for doing a quick beta on it as well as reviewing. Thank yous also to Riksie-Dixie and Tev. A furisode, by the way, is a kimono with long dangling sleeves worn by unmarried women.


	7. Yukie: Elimination Rounds

Yukie knew who he was, of course. _Everyone __in the world of masks and capes_ knew who Deathstroke was, just as they knew who Lady Shiva was, and if only a fraction of the stories told about him were true, he was one of the most dangerous men in the world. This was the first time she had ever seen a picture of him without the his mask. Hurrying back to the waiting room, she found the mood entirely altered from alert anticipation to a stiff-backed apprehension as those closest to the entry subtly drew back to make room.

"He was just a spectator at last year's," she heard someone mumble. "Heard it was the first time he'd ever seen a match."

"He can't have gone from knowing nothing about it to world-class in a year," someone else protested.

"Him? It probably only took _him_ six months…"

"More like three…"

"I wouldn't have come all this way if I'd known…"

"Me neither. That's a hundred thousand I'll never see again."

Such was the tenor of the comments as the man himself entered the room. She did not have a very good view of him—just a glimpse of a stony profile and graying hair, but it seemed he was the very last entrant in the competition. That said something of him—he had waited, perhaps to make an entrance, but also perhaps because he knew his presence would deter others from entering.

The sword inspector appeared in the open doorway. "The event is about to begin. When the drums sound the challenge, please enter the combat floor via that door, one at a time. There are eighty-eight competitors this year, so after the opening remarks, the elimination rounds will begin with ten at a time. You may watch and wait from the back of the hall or return here. Remember that any improper conduct amongst yourselves will result in instant disqualification and may lead to a ban from future competitions. Thank you."

Tommy Chen started, "Should I go in? Since I'm your drummer—."

She held up a hand to forestall him. "I shan't need you until the freestyle round, which is the seventh. Don't listen too closely to the beat—I don't want you to imitate them, Just play as you normally play, and I will dance to your rhythms."

His 'drum set', such as it was, was comprised of several plastic buckets in different sizes. She had cut through Gotham's Chinatown one day on her way to the monorail, and found him playing on a street corner for whatever money people put in a jar at his feet. Stopping to listen to him for a while, she was struck by the fresh spontaneity of his beats, how he played the heartbeat of youth and city life that pulsed through the streets. When she approached him with the request that he play for her that night, he had at first refused, so she had appealed to his grandmother instead, and with her on Yukie's side, had won the argument.

"Okay. Man, I feel like a midget in here. Even the guys who aren't that tall or that big, they have this presence to them, you know?"

"I know," she replied. And none more so that Deathstroke. He was like a huge mastiff in a room full of cats made nervous by his presence. Even though he wasn't attacking, there was the sense that he might at any moment.

The drums began the call, a martial cadence with an accelerating beat. The door to the loading dock opened, and the nearest began to file in. She turned to Granny Chen. "Is anything out of place?"

It was important to create an impression upon entering the arena, and so it was for this, the parade before the spectators, that she had dressed so carefully. Her furisode had a pattern of falling snow swirling on the wind, not as tiny individual snow flakes, but fat soft clumps, all in white and shades of grey on a black background. The obi cinching her waist was scarlet with real silver and gold foil appliqués in a basket-weave pattern, and in her hair was an engraved mother-of-pearl comb and hair stick set, all of which her grandmother had given her over the years.

"No, no, nothing—wait," The elderly woman adjusted one of the sticks. "There. You are lovely. Such perfect skin, I never saw the like before. Ah, I wish I was your age again. Or even just thirty years younger. So many good men here!" she giggled.

"Grandma!" Tommy protested after the fashion of all scandalized youth.

"What? How do you think I got to be a grandma in the first place! All right, all right. I will be waiting at the back." The two Chens withdrew to one side, out of the way of the competitors, as Yukie joined the line. Reaching the head of it, she paused, waiting for the dancer before her to clear the entryway. Then she stepped forward. Blinding light in her eyes once again, then clarity.

The stadium seats were full now, and the seats up in the director's office as well. There were the three judges' seats, the first occupied by Jade Nguyen, famous under the name of Cheshire, the center by a man she did not know, and the third by Lady Shiva. Off to one side sat a throne-like chair occupied by the Penguin, who was staring down with an avid, greedy look on his pudgy face. She could hear an oceanic murmur of voices as she made her way to the next empty space on the floor with the small, artful steps that made a kimono's hem flow like water. Unable to catch exact words over the drums, she could only interpret the hum as not-terribly-interested wonder.

More competitors entered, some eliciting a more excited tone from the audience, until, again at the tail end of the pack, Deathstroke entered. Then the murmur of excitement became a roar, some spectators standing on their chairs to get a better look. The sudden whine of a microphone cut through the din.

"Good evening, and welcome to the first Jian Wu Annual Championship held in our great city," the Penguin blustered out over the hall. "In case any of you are worried about unwanted interruptions by You-Know-Who, tonight Batman is playing tag with the Joker and Harley Quinn on the other side of town, bad cess to them, and won't be any bother to us tonight."

_Poor little man_, Yukie thought. _He thinks himself the master of the house tonight, but he is only the court jester. There in the center is the real king. _The judge she was thinking of was a man bridging the gap between middle aged and elderly, with astreaks of grey in his hair and a widows' peak cresting his high forehead.

"—the judges tonight are the lovely ladies Cheshire and Lady Shiva, and of course our most distinguished guest, the great Ra's Al Ghul! Now Shiva will explain matters for those of you who haven't been to a Jian Wu event before."

Handing off the microphone to Lady Shiva, who took it as she might take a used tissue, with great distaste and looking as though she would rather not touch it, he sat down heavily, pulling the lapels of his coat closer to his neck.

"Good evening," Shiva began. "Jian Wu is an art form dating back three thousand years or more. Based upon sword training exercises conducted to the beat of a drum for synchronicity, it evolved into a formal dual in which the dualists begin by performing, solo yet in synch, the six maneuvers upon which all Jian Wu is based. Furthermore, all maneuvers must be performed while leaping—both feet must leave the ground—and require precise slashes with two swords over, under and around the body.

"Only if a competitor can complete each maneuver perfectly at tempo upon their first attempt, will they be allowed to progress to the next, and finally to the seventh level, which is the freestyle round. You will be judged upon your grace, accuracy, closeness of blades to the body, and elevation of leap. Eighty-five to ninety percent of you will be eliminated during the six mandatory maneuvers. If you injure yourself, which is common—on occasion there is a dancer who goes so far as to sever their own foot— you may continue for as long as you desire; no one will stop you from bleeding out if you so desire. If you cannot complete a maneuver successfully, in the seventh round or before, you are out. Needless to say, the judges' decisions are final.

"Only eight to twelve of you will reach the seventh round, at which time _and not before_, you will cross steel until there is only one dancer remaining. This is the level at which Jian Wu becomes art, and occasionally it becomes death. Seventh-level maneuvers are freeform, and the only requirement is that they be of the highest difficulty. Merely because the round is called freestyle does not mean you are allowed to improvise wildly; there are nearly a thousand recognized maneuvers to choose from, surely enough for anyone's self-expression. Once you complete a maneuver successfully, you are free to strike at your opponent in any way you choose, provided you can do so_ before_ your feet touch the ground. Performing an offensive strike while so much as a toe touches the ground means your immediate elimination. Your opponent may defend, block, counter or parry your strikes as they choose, but may not do more than defend unless they too are in mid-leap."

Shiva suddenly stood up, and she looked down upon the waiting fighters. "While fatalities happen, I must emphasize that the intent of Jian Wu is self-expression, not slaughter." Could it be that she was looking specifically at Deathstroke while she said the words?

"Accidental deaths are most often due to panic upon the part of a dancer who is then leaping up when he should be coming down and his opponent cannot pull his own strike in time. We are familiar with such accidents. We are also familiar with deliberate slaughter, and if we judge a death to be so, it means immediate disqualification. I trust you understand."

Yes, that was definitely aimed at Deathstroke.

"That having been said, it is said that Jian Wu is excellence and skill and pride and courage and grace and magnificence rolled into one. We are very glad to see both familiar faces and new at this year's championship. Now _dance_." She reclaimed her seat, and the first ten competitors took their places, five and five, facing each other but at a distance of some paces. Quickly doffing her furisode, obi, and hair ornaments and handing them over to granny Chen, Yukie turned back to watch the competition.

The drum beats changed, beginning the soft growl of the Tiger, and the fighters leaped, slashing their swords forward in imitation of a great cat pouncing on prey. All ten passed—not unexpected, for anyone who could not complete the first maneuver would hardly enter this competition—and they were succeeded by the next ten. Again, the soft insistent growl, the pounce—and again, all passed. Upon the third set of ten, one man was eliminated because his left-hand sword wavered, and another man was eliminated from the fifth set for leading with the wrong foot. Yukie's turn came, and she executed the move without flaw.

The seventh set and the eighth eliminated no more fighters, and then it was time for the last set, the set of eight, including Deathstroke. Why she had chosen to focus on him more than any other? Because he was the only one who she knew of personally, because he exuded such power and confidence. Because he had an_ interesting_ face. She could see him properly now. Bare to the waist, his chest was marred with scar tissue to the point where there was hardly a hand's span of skin without a mark on it. He performed the Tiger with the air of someone performing a boring classroom exercise, and then it was time for the Kingfisher.

The Kingfisher called for wing-beat slashes and a swoop like a kingfisher plucking a fish from the water. This time five people were eliminated, one woman and four men. It was with a sense of great satisfaction that she watched 'Gash' slice his own right shin open down to the bone. The rounds paused while he was helped out of the ring and the floor washed down—as they brought him past her, she could not help but say, in saccharine sweet tones, "Oh, my. What a_ terrible_ gash!" He was in too much pain to glare at her. Her turn, and she performed it with the 'Tail Flick' variation, a showy little move that drew a small round of applause.

Deathstroke again passed the round without ever getting into the true rhythm of the dance.

Third round—Dragon's Breath. This was the first real challenge for most of the fighters. It called for_ four _successive leaps, during which the swords swirled like smoke spiraling from nostrils, and it was easy to drop one or both swords if you crossed your arms wrong. Twenty-one were eliminated that round. Yukie was not among them, nor, of course, was _he_.

She was beginning to feel overheated, however, and between turns went to get a bottle of cold water and a towel from Granny. She drank only a few swallows—if she left the room to relieve her bladder, she would miss her turn—and poured the rest on the towel, wrapping it around her neck to cool the pulse points.

The fourth maneuver was the Swan—mantling wings as though it descended on a lake. If a dancer could make it to the fourth round, then the Swan was usually relatively easy, but all the same, seventeen more were eliminated. That meant over half the competitors were now out. After passing with ease, Yukie broke out an instant cold pack and tucked it down the front of her tunic, in between her breasts, to cool her throbbing heart. She was thus occupied when Deathstroke's turn came, but naturally he passed.

Fifth round, the Serpent. In an ordinary match, one-on-one as Jian Wu events usually went, the six would follow in rapid succession. This way, one had but a moment and then a long wait between. Too long, never mind that so many were eliminated. There was too much time to become excited, to long to dance properly. She executed the maneuver, including the 'Cobra Hood'—again, a slight round of applause—and then commandeered a bucket of water from one of the Penguin's floorwashers. She poured it over her head, ruining the tight bun she had put her hair up in. Pulling it down around her shoulders in long, stringy strands, she awaited the results.

Twelve eliminated. That left thirty-one. Nineteen to twenty-three would have to be eliminated in the next round, which was Night Rain. Night rain was another multi-leap move, each time with twelve slashes beginning an arms' length above the head and ending at the feet. The man next to her made a grievous error and sliced off half his left hand, spattering her with blood, but she did not flinch and she finished the maneuver—although she was doubtful of her last set. She had only managed about eleven and a half slashes before she touched down.

The injured man was out, of course, since he could no longer hold his blade, and then there was a longer pause as the judges conferred. She assumed Deathstroke made it without any difficulty, and poured another bucket of water over her head. The first had been very successful, since being drenched with water was the same as being drenched in sweat and served the same purpose, cooling by evaporation.

The conference went on for several minutes, and while she waited she was surprised to hear someone calling her name, and what was more, calling 'Yukie-chan', a fond endearment. Looking up, she saw someone she never expected—her great-uncle, who was a vice-president of Zento Motors. That did not mean what it once had, as Zento was struggling in both domestic and foreign markets.

"Uncle?" She got to her feet.

"Yukie, what do you think you're doing here?"

"Doing here? I am competing. Surely you know I've been making my own way in the world ever since my family, including you, conspired behind my back to divorce me and marry my only sister to my husband!" she called up to him in a projected whisper.

"Of course I knew! There were reasons we did what we did, things you don't know about. But, you, here? Doing this?" he shook his head. "I thought it was you when you came in—you look just like your grandmother. Even wearing her furisode—and speaking of which, aren't you far too old to be wearing husband-hunting clothes?"

"I may be about to compete for the Jian Wu world championship and you're going to quibble about what I _wore_?! A little perspective is in order, I think, dear uncle!"

"Speak with more respect when you speak to me!" he barked. "And get up here! You cannot continue with this!"

"Neither you nor anyone else in my family has the right to tell me what I may and may not do!" she returned. "My life is my own now! It has_ been _my own for nearly two decades!"

"You don't understand! You'll never win! Do you want to be slaughtered that badly—." She whirled and walked away from whatever else he had to say. Besides, they were reading off who was eliminated.

She had done it. She made it to the seventh level. Checking the odds board, she sighed a little in relief. Thanks to the rolling accelerator bet, she had already won at least a third of what was needed to cover the debt, which would be a great help even if she won nothing else. Then she saw the odds for winning had changed. Now it was twenty-three to one in Deathstroke's favor, and two hundred fifty-six to one against anybody else.

* * *

A/N: Damn, don't know how this is turning out to be so long a scene. This chapter is inspired by Barry Hughart's excellent novel The Bridge of Birds. Thanks to SwordStitcher, Riksie-Dixie, and as ever, Tev!


	8. Nora, Victor, Slade: Counterpoint

"I'm sorry, Ms. Fries," the doctor said, "but while you'll never suffer from further damage from Huntington's, there is nothing that can be done to reverse the symptoms. You'll experience minor involuntary spasms and tremors for the rest of your life. At this time, there is no effective treatment in existence. However, there are therapists and groups which can offer you emotional support and practical advice. I'd be happy to—." He could only offer Nora a tissue as she began crying.

Once she recovered herself and blew her nose, she looked up to him—he was a very attractive man, she noted, too. "I'm sure you think this is petty, considering that I was dying not so long ago, from my point of view that is, and I'm glad to be alive, but I was a dancer. That was all I ever wanted to do—as a career, that is. I don't know what I am, if I can't dance."

"I'm very sorry," he said. "—you know, I can think of someone much closer to home you should definitely speak to about how to live with a condition such as yours. Your husband's assistant, ah, what was her name? I don't remember, but I noticed she has something similar. It doesn't seem as though she lets it stop her."

"Assistant?" she asked, racking her brain to recall if Victor had mentioned having an assistant.

"Yes, a very striking woman, if a bit chilly—."

Nora flinched at the word, thinking of Victor, and the doctor must have read it on her face.

"Oh. I'm sorry," he apologized, looking stricken. "It's just an expression, I didn't mean—."

"It's all right," Nora Fries cut in, but he went on.

"—even with everything that happened to him and everything he did, he's still the pioneer of modern cryogenics and Huntington's research as well, a genius—."

"Wait," Nora stopped him. "Wait a minute. What? What do you mean, _everything he did_? What did he do?"

"He—he—You don't know, then."

"No. I don't. What did he do?"

"I never meant—." With all this dithering, she noticed that for all that he smiled nicely, his chin was weak and his eyes too deep set.

"What. Did. He. Do?" she gritted out.

"It was several years ago. He hasn't done anything like it for at least five years—."

"Tell me!"

"He was a criminal." the doctor finally blurted out.

* * *

Back at the facility by the bay, Victor Fries ascended from his frozen hell up to the warm bright heaven he had had built for Nora atop the existing structure. It was ready. He opened the doors as he walked around. The kitchen fit for a professional chef which extended out as living room and dining room combined. There was the practice room, with its mirrored wall and barré, the floor waiting for the first graceful step. There was the bathroom with an extra large soaking tub, the spacious closets… the bedroom he would never share. Well, at least they would be close together. If, once she recovered from her future shock, she still wanted to stay by him.

He couldn't live simply anywhere, given his condition, so when the cure was imminent, he gave Yukie the details about the sort of house they had dreamed of having someday, and turned the project over to her. She'd found an architect, dealt with the builders and aerospace engineers—when people with such different environmental requirements shared a building, making sure Nora would stay safe was a vital consideration. He frowned in thought. No wonder Yukie needed a long vacation so badly. He had placed a great deal on her without thinking twice about whether she would be able to handle the work load. She had never complained, though.

One never noticed the people who were quietly competent until they weren't there any longer. Not that she was gone as yet, but she would be soon. He hoped the man she was seeing, whoever he was, appreciated her…

* * *

Slade Wilson woke with a snort. He was in a bed—good. A clean and comfortable bed, better. The bed sheets still held lingering aromas of sex and a clean smelling perfume, better yet. The faint hint of gun oil from the weapon under the pillow was so familiar it didn't even register. The soft sounds of someone drowsing beside him meant he was with Yukie and this was Gotham City, if any confirmation beyond sex and perfume was needed. All this took but a split second to process through his cortex.

(Certain occasions invited introspection, and when two people who had not spent more than forty-odd consecutive hours together at a time proposed to go on a trip lasting eight weeks, it called for some consideration. So it was not a coincidence that each of them had a long quiet think about things.)

He rolled over to face her. Exactly how old was Yukime Kuwano, anyhow?

Looking at her skin, he would say she was not that much older than his daughter Rose, but that poreless pale ivory was deceptive. The firm athleticism of her body was that of a woman in her twenties, but she could not have gone to University, graduated, been married and divorced after three years and then worked for Freeze for twelve if that were the case. Judging by how she dressed and how readily responsive she was in bed, she was in her mid-thirties. Going by her knowledge of the world, her poise and wit, he would have said she was over forty. No surgeon's scalpel or cosmetician's Botox needle had ever touched her face or body. So what was the answer? Looking at the ID in her wallet would tell him nothing; she used a false name for these occasions.

He had perfect recall of how they met. He'd been told that Jian Wu was the martial art for people who found conventional martial arts too slow, dull and earthbound. After watching the previous year's bout, he dedicated an hour a day to learning the maneuvers and practicing with two blades. Unfortunately, the only real competition, Lady Shiva, was sitting on the judge's bench this year. What a waste of time this was…

He looked around at the eleven other finalists looking for weaknesses. That one had cheap, poorly made blades, that one over there had dedicated too much training to his torso and not enough to his legs, that one was greener than grass—when had everyone under the age of thirty started looking like a child? Only two women had made it to the seventh level. One was a member of Talia's bodyguard, interchangeable body-doubles of their mistress. No doubt some few of them had lost their lives standing in for her.

The other…The other looked as though someone had tried to drown her and nearly succeeded. As he assessed her, she gathered up her bedraggled hair, wrung half a pint of water out of it, and bound it back from her face. Venus Anadyomene as drawn by Yoshitoshi or Hiroshige, dressed in blood-stained white. Her waterlogged tunic was plastered to her body, revealing a figure that was athletic rather than voluptuous. No plastic surgery here; her breasts were proportionate to her bone structure and body mass. As for her face— if she were set down next to Cheshire no one would give her a second look, except for her skin. By the look of it, her reflexes had been enhanced to the point where she was constantly jumpy. All in all, a more interesting potential adversary than the generic ninja.

The first match pitted the two women against each other, perhaps to eliminate them quickly. The soaking wet swordswoman beckoned to a Chinese youth, who—was he going to be drumming on plastic buckets?

Apparently so. It was said that the right drummer was the equivalent of a third sword, because although the drummers played in unison through the six mandatory maneuvers, during the seventh they split and each played for one combatant alone. The traditional drummer pounded the cadence for the salute, the judges started the sand clock, and then the match began. By tradition, the match would last until one fighter was eliminated for some reason or the hourglass ran out, whichever came first. If the latter, then the judges debated over whose form had been better.

Immediately Slade saw the bodyguard's problem. She could not focus on her drummer alone; the boy with the plastic buckets was distracting her. Martial artist she might be, but a dancer she was not. Venus Hiroshige saw this too, and amused herself by first slicing a lock of hair from the woman's head and then an armband from her bicep without breaking the skin. The ninja, furious enough to spit at that point, badly botched her next maneuver and made her offensive move after touching down.

Realizing what she had done, she threw herself on her hands and knees in abject misery facing the judges and her mistress, who was sitting behind her father. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

"The judges declare Yuki-Onna the winner of this match," was the only reply. So that was Venus Hiroshige's nom de guerre. He would remember that.

The ninja slunk off while the victor retreated to the sideline, and the next two took their place. This was a more equal match between two men he recognized from the previous year's match. It ran to the very last grain of sand, and then the three up above conferred for a few minutes before declaring a winner.

The third match proceeded in much the same way, the fourth ended when one fighter half-scalped his opponent, who could not go on with blood streaming into his eyes, and the fifth ended when one of the men attempted the maneuver 'Eight Drakes Under the River Bridge' and slashed into his own scrotum. Messy. Slade was getting bored.

His turn, and his lips peeled back from his teeth in a vulpine grin when he saw the pup with the pot-metal blades. Already strategizing, he set out to make this match a more interesting one.

The match looked normal at the start, except that Slade never lost that cold wide grin. While attempting his third maneuver, Deathstroke's opponent flung himself into his attack with such velocity and momentum that even when his blade hit the assassin's and broke, he kept going, half-decapitating himself on the other man's blade. His blood fountained out in two frothy jets, spraying the competitors and painting the splatter shields in crimson. For his part, Slade had not moved so much as a muscle other than the original blocking move. He simply stood and let it all happen, calculated to a split second and a hair's breadth.

The crowd burst into uproar, half approval, half outrage.

"Halt!" Shiva got to her feet. "Deathstroke—." Ra's put a hand on her sleeve. "We will confer," she bit back whatever it was she had been going to say, and put her head together with that of her fellow judges. He took the opportunity to wash off the blood and waited. They summoned the sword inspector, who, by his body language, was telling them the fool had brought a pair of fancy wakizashi that were actually wrought iron bonded to mild steel.

Finally they split apart. Ra's spoke for them. "The judges declare this an accidental death with the proviso that it be the only one. Deathstroke is the winner."

He grinned wider, and left the center of the arena.

The matches continued. Six remained—or rather, five and himself—then there were four—then three others—and finally he faced the last and the best of them.

Venus Hiroshige. Yuki-Onna. Again, she was streaming wet, and the blood on her tunic had spread out into something like an abstraction of roses. She was perhaps five foot six or seven and a hundred and forty pounds to his six-six and two hundred twenty five. She also looked angry enough to fry eggs on her head. The drums sounded the cadence and the hourglass turned.

He began by leaping into the move which had unmanned that other fighter, 'Eight Drakes Under the River Bridge', slashing the blades around his body and between his legs, perfectly and without self injury, and then flicked out in a move that would have sliced up her shoulder.

She parried, leapt into the air like a length of silk snapped out by the wind, and returned with 'Ice Falling From the Mountaintop', a move that was considered very nearly impossible, and still had time before her toes touched the ground for two swipes meant to remove his eyebrows. He blocked those easily, and went straight into 'Stallion Racing In the Meadow', then feinted toward her midsection with one blade while going for her left ear with the other.

She anticipated the feint and countered the ear-cut with a hiss like a scalded cat, then leapt up like a springbok into a maneuver that was triple the difficulty, 'Storm Clouds'.

He heard the crowd roar before he felt the sting or the hot wetness suddenly flooding the side of his head. She couldn't have—she had! She had blindsided him, sliced his ear half off!

"Will you _stop_—phoning it in?!" she fumed at him from a safe distance.

_Phoning it in?_ It would not have been so insulting if there were no truth in it. He hadn't been putting much into this because until now, there had been no need.

So she wanted his best? She would have it. Furious, he whipped into 'Eagle Screams', aiming two savage blows toward her face that would have cost her several teeth had they landed.

Yuki-Onna suddenly smiled as she countered, a happy joyous, _stunning_ smile, and answered with 'Eagle Screams Above the Lamb' which was several times as difficult as his move, and still had time for two strikes intended to remove his beard and mustache and a third that would have unmanned him had they landed.

The crowd cheered, and he heard Ra's Al Ghul's voice ring out. "That's only the _sixth _time I've seen_ that_ move performed successfully!"

He one-upped that with 'Stork Hunting Frogs Among the Lotus', and then….then something shifted within him_. I want to bed her. I want to bed her __**tonight**_.

She wasn't _that_ pretty, and her figure wasn't the sort to turn men's mouths dry and their palms wet, but she danced with joy in it, he saw that now, and joy was something he had little enough of in anything. Other than killing, that was.

He wanted her, and could not remember the last time he wanted a woman like this, wanted one with more appetite than one might have for just another potato chip. And it had to be _her_, too, not simply an anonymous female body. So at the very last moment, he pulled a blow that would have laid her face open from chin to cheekbone. A woman with her face in shreds would not be in a seducible mood, after all. Nor would one who lost after dancing like this.

The question now was, how to let her win without making it obvious? He couldn't simply let her beat him, his pride wouldn't allow it and it would never be credible. If this were any sort of fight other than Jian Wu, he would have cut her into collops long before; only the formal rules gave her any sort of chance.

She went right into 'Maple Leaves Caught In the Torrent' followed by a flashing strike designed to remove his nose, landed on her toes, and then her eyes grew wide as she saw what he was doing.

Leaping up, he went into 'Widow's Tears', only instead of forward, he went backward, to make her come to him. With a hawk's cry of fury, she followed, savagely tearing into 'Bamboo Spears', her swords flashing into blurs, but now the sand clock was swirling almost as fast.

Launching into 'Clash of Antlers In the Forest', he slashed a fingerwidth of fabric from the side of her tunic, but she redoubled with 'Treacherous Currents', her blades leaping out to try and flay him stem to stern.

He parried, and now the crowd began shouting a countdown as he went into 'Tenth Dive of the Blue Heron', his sword leaping out to touch her throat, drawing a line just _there_—the second _after_ the last grain of sand ran out.

There was a moment's utter silence, and Yuki-Onna dropped her blades, her hands flying to her neck, her face a mask of utter horror as she expected to feel her life springing out over her fingers.

The merest trickle was all she found there. He had been _very_ precise.

Up above, there was murmuring in the judges' box. Finally Cheshire said, sounding as though she did not believe what was coming out of her mouth. "The judges find that Deathstroke did not finish his final maneuver before the time ran out, and that….therefore, we declare Yuki-Onna the winner of this year's Jian Wu World Championship."

The entire room exploded into an uproar, shouting, applauding, cheering, screaming, and whistling.

Yuki-Onna was wobbling on her feet. She did not look as though she believed it either. "I…won?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Yes," he said, and then leaned in close to say directly into her ear, "but I've marked you now."

Her hands came away from the wound, and she replied defiantly, "_I_ marked _you_ first."

"So you did." He sheathed his blades, reached out a hand. "Peace?"

She glanced at his hand and then at his face before she slipped her fingers into his. "Peace."

After that, he went to the first aid area, where they cleaned his face and put a couple of stitches into his ear before wrapping it in gauze. He didn't really need it—he healed very quickly, after all. What he was doing was waiting. Just as in 'Widow's Tears', it was all about making her come to him.

Above his head, he could hear Yuki-Onna being introduced to the Judges, caught snippets of the conversation.

Ra's: "I know your secret."

The champion replied, "Truly? Which one is that?"

The ancient Assassin chuckled. "A very good question. Tell me, how did Freeze acquire talent like yours, and how is it we haven't heard of you before now?"

Part of her reply was lost, but he did hear, "…have various medical issues which make Dr. Fries an ideal employer for me. I am not suited to heavy combat, this night aside, but there is nothing wrong with my mind and so I prefer to use that."

Shiva put in. "You are indeed a remarkable dancer, Yuki-Onna. Do not mistake that for being a great warrior, lest it prove fatal. It takes more than talent and practice."

"I know that all too well, which is why I work for Dr. Fries and live very quietly, with no one knowing or particularly caring who I am."

"That is very wise of you," Shiva replied. "I hope that some day I will have the pleasure of meeting you in the ring."

Then more conversation which he could not follow, before her clear voice said, "Asking how much it would take to have me leave Dr. Fries and join you is like a man writing poems of praise to a woman's chastity while trying to seduce her. If I would abandon him for enough money then I would also betray you."

"And if something were to happen to Freeze, leaving you masterless?" Ra's smoothly countered.

"I believe the accepted response is to hunt down and slaughter those responsible, is it not?" she replied. "However, it may be that at some point in the future my obligations to him will be fulfilled, and once I am free, should you still have a use for me, I would certainly consider joining you."

Ra's said, with a smile in his voice. "Then I look forward to that possibility. Thank you. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Yuki-Onna. It is rare that one meets someone who does not burn to outshine the sun in this shadow half-world we move in. Modesty has great charm, too. Now go and get your hurts looked to. You are still bleeding."

She came down the stairs, and paused when she saw him there at the side table. The medics cleaned the cut, painted it with disinfectant, and she did not look at him at all while they did it. She did not look at him but she was aware of him as he was of her. Finally when they were done and she was bandaged, he got up and went into the hall—and waited again.

She followed and paused, her eyes searching his face. Then she reached up, drew his face down to hers, and placed a brief feather-light kiss on his lips. The second kiss was neither brief nor tentative. The third…

She left there with him.

Good as it was between them that night, he didn't plan on coming back for more. However, a few weeks later when he had a 'job' planned in Gotham, he found himself remembering very vividly how she had felt and moved and smelled and tasted— so he had called, and she was free. It was even better that night.

The third time, some idiot fired a mortar round into the restaurant where they were dining, and not only was she cool under fire, but she picked shards of glass out of his shoulders with tweezers afterward, utterly unfazed. Then there was the time they broke the bed, and…now, more than two years later, long after he would have thought he would be bored, or that she would have stopped answering his calls, they were still seeing each other.

He reached for the control to the suite's entertainment center, turned it on and brought up the room service menu. Coffee for him, tea for her, rare steak and potato galettes for him, tea-cured salmon and herbed scrambled eggs for her, juice for both. No need to wake her and ask; he knew what she would want.

When you knew someone_ that_ well, you were in a relationship and it was time to admit it to yourself.

Slade had already made up his mind. He would go with her on this pilgrimage through Haunted Japan. It should prove amusing. She had gone into more detail about her plans over dinner, and most of the sites she proposed to visit had historical or military significance, which would be interesting. However—whatever else came of it, this trip would change things between them. It was quite possible they would be sick of each other after a week and break up. It was also quite possible they would get along just as well as they did short term, and then—see exactly where they stood.

It was time to set his plan in motion, now that she was done working for Freeze, before Ra's or someone else could make her an offer. Someone with her capabilities and attributes could write her own ticket with any of the major players on either side.

And Rose was part of the plan, another piece on the chessboard. Yes, he would call his daughter, tell her he was seeing someone, use that as a bridge to reconciliation.

Yukie woke when the food arrived and exclaimed with pleasure. While she was pouring her tea, he chose that moment to ask her something he had long wondered about.

"Yukie…obviously you know what I do for a living."

"Yes," she replied. "You are the finest assassin in the world. I would never be able to respect you if you weren't good at what you do."

"I've come to expect a wide range of reactions when someone finds that out. Serene acceptance is nowhere along that spectrum."

She shrugged. "I knew who you were before we ever met. I made up my mind to accept what you do the moment before I kissed you. I was raised Shinto Buddhist, and I largely still am, but I admit my way of thinking about certain things is unorthodox. My personal beliefs are elastic enough to encompass assassination, provided the assassin behaves with the mercy and compassion appropriate to his trade."

He had to smile at that. "And what are those?"

"A sharp blade and a clean shot. A fast death without prolonged suffering. Death is not the end; it's merely a return to the wheel, and chance to get things right in your next existence. It's how we behave toward each other while we're here that matters. Eat up, your steak is getting cold."

* * *

A/N: Longest Chapter Ever. I would like to thank SwordStitcher, Tev, my anonymous reviewer, Riksie-Dixie and Bat-Teen28 for their reviews, and if you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know. If you have questions, let me know. If you have suggestions, let me know. I'm here.


	9. Yukie, Nora: Damage Control

Yukie turned her phone back on as she left the hotel. One e-mail, two texts, the first from a stranger, the second two from Dr. Fries. Skipping the e-mail for the moment, she checked the two from her employer. The first of those apologized for disturbing her in her off hours, but he required her assistance at Nora's clinic rather urgently. The second reminded her of his villain days—he demanded to know where she was and ordered her to meet him at the clinic _immediately_. A third message arrived even as she read the second—he first apologized for the tone of the last message, there was no medical emergency, yet he would still appreciate her help.

She hailed a taxi and gave the clinic address, then fired off a reassuring text that she was on her way. With that out of the way, she looked at the stranger's email. It was from (of all people) Ra's Al Ghul, or at least it was sent in his name. There was no point in wondering how he got her address, as people on his level of power could access anything they pleased.

It was only one sentence, 'Is it not familiar?', but there was an image attached, a copy of a woodblock print from the Edo period, when Japan cut itself off from the outside world for more than two hundred and fifty years. Woodblock prints were not high art at the time; they were much like posters or comic books of the current day: cheap, mass produced examples of popular culture.

This one was part of a series, '36 Contemporary Beauties From The Pleasure Quarter'—portraits of the reigning courtesans in that era's red-light district. This was 'Miss Carnation'—the accompanying poem read 'This flower wilts sadly in the heat—the stem that fills her slender vase must have enough dew to refresh her. How she enjoys it!'. A pretty, ephemeral bit of verse—unless you knew that stem was a euphemism for penis, vase meant vagina, and dew meant seminal fluid.

However, Ra's had not sent it to her for the sake of the poetry. 'Miss Carnation' was shown lounging on cushions in her boudoir, a black iron incense burner in the shape of a rattan ball at her feet sending tendrils of smoke through the air to caress her. She was wearing a black furisode with a pattern of falling snow in shades of grey and white, with a scarlet obi in a basketweave pattern. Identical, or nearly so, to the garb Yukie had worn to the Jian Wu competition.

Why was one of the most formidable individuals in the world bothering with her, especially since it had been more than two years since they met? Bedmate aside, she was still very much a nobody.

Why this particular interest in what she had worn? The designs were hardly unique.

Which of her secrets did he know, or had he simply been teasing her? Even if he had somehow secured a copy of her grandmother's final letter to her, only she knew how to read the secret message. Was she the only one, though? Her grandmother must have picked up the idea from somewhere.

Was it perhaps something she did not even know herself? That was always a possibility.

She considered several possible replies to his e-mail before sending, 'How charming of you to remember me! Yes, 'Miss Carnation's' ensemble is very like the one I inherited from my grandmother. How exciting it would be to have a connection to such an alluring figure from the past, but the falling snow motif and the obi pattern are still popular today, or they are popular again, I should say. I thank you for calling this to my attention, and I will see about getting a copy. Sincerely, Yukime Kuwano.'

There. That was done. Polite, pleasant, noncommittal, and respectful. Also, considering what to say and how to phrase it had filled the ride to the clinic quite nicely. She found Dr. Fries and one of the clinic doctors in the observation room. The doctor's body language was stiff and defensive, Victor's hunched and despairing.

On realizing she had entered, her employer looked up with an expression of relief. "Thank God. You're finally here."

"What's wrong?" she asked, placing her overnight bag beside the sofa discreetly.

"This…" There were a number of choice words stifled in that pause. "_man_ told Nora something I had planned to break to her myself in my own time and my own way."

"She could have Googled it at any moment," the doctor mumbled.

"She has no idea what Google is," Victor Fries snapped back. "The point being, Nora now knows what I had to resort to before the money from the patents started coming in. She is, as you may imagine, very upset, and I find….I cannot go in there and face her. I simply cannot. I know this is hardly within your job description, but as a personal favor, can you—." He left the statement open-ended.

He was not lacking in bravery, she knew. Yukie had seen him face down Batman and take out Killer Croc when the latter was inches away from smashing his wife's cryochamber, but Nora held his naked heart in her two hands. He had fought death itself and made it loose its hold on her, yet in the face of her anguish, he was vulnerable.

"I can," she replied, and took a moment to consider how. Looking to the indiscreet doctor, she asked, "Is there any reason Mrs. Fries could not leave the clinic for a few hours today to see something of the city as it is now? If I understand correctly, any change in her condition is apt to be slow."

"Well, we don't really have any data on cryorevivals," the man began, "She could have a sudden stroke—but if she wore a remote monitor with an alarm, I don't see any reason why she couldn't have an outing."

"Very good," Yukie said. Glancing out the window, she saw the logo for a luxury department store at the mall a few blocks away. "First, Dr. Fries, what is Nora's dress size, and what is her shoe size? She has no clothes, and she cannot go out without something to wear."

"Her sizes—Size four dresses and size six shoes, as I recall. She likes blue."

"Size four of thirty years ago is liable to be a size two or even size zero today," she commented. Retailers had found that people bought more clothing when the labels read a smaller size than the garment really was. "I will get something where the exact fit is not too important. Second, you drove here, did you not? If you can arrange another way to get home, I will need the keys."

"Here," he handed them over.

"Thank you. Go home and wait there. You were not here this morning; instead you asked me to pick up some things for her, and then she and I will go for a drive. If all goes well, I will call when we return here, and you can return for a visit in the afternoon; if it goes _very_ well, I will bring her to the house."

"What else should I do?" Victor Fries asked.

If she did not give him a task, he would obsess to distraction over this. "Flowers," she said. "I placed an order for later in the week, but you could get them for today." No doubt he would overdo it, and both the house and Nora Fries' room would be overflowing with them, but better that than have him overwrought.

"Right," he said, his eyes met hers. "Thank you."

"It is too soon to thank me now," she said, "but I will do my best."

* * *

About an hour later:

Nora hadn't known what Google was when she woke up that morning, but she figured it out soon enough. The first thing she ever Googled was Victor's name. After about twenty minutes she gave up reading, turned off the tablet and cried herself out. Finally she was left in that state of dehydration and numbness that follows such an exhausting emotional purge, and then there was a knock on the door.

"Ms. Fries?" a female voice asked.

"Who is it?" she replied.

"My name is Yukie Kuwano and I'm Dr. Fries' assistant. He asked me to pick up some things for you. May I come in?" Victor's chilly yet striking assistant, the one with the condition like hers? Or should that be the other way around, striking yet chilly? The voice sounded friendly and human enough. She spoke excellent English, but with a light accent.

"Okay," she said. Why not?

The door opened, and Nora blinked. Her first thought was_: Snow White. No, her wicked stepmother_. _Only Asian_, because the woman standing there had black hair, white skin, and red lips. However, there was nothing of the lost princess about her and she _was_ undeniably Asian. Her clothes were also black, white and red. In one hand she held several garment bags by their clothes hangers, and around her feet was a small forest of shopping bags.

"Over the last thirty years, your wardrobe went missing, and since you can't go out without anything to wear, here you are," she explained, breezing into the room to hang the garments in the closet, then going to and fro with the other bags. Yes, there was a certain strangeness to the way she moved, something like Huntington's.

Yukie continued, "I didn't buy much today, since of course you'd rather have clothes you picked out yourself, but this should get you started. I've also ordered credit cards in your name. They should be here by the end of the week. This bag has lingerie, and this one is cosmetics—those are shoes, of course. Dr. Fries told me your sizes."

"Thank you," Nora said automatically, "…so, what is you do for Victor, other than shopping for his wife?" She wasn't really interested, but she could still be polite.

"Generally speaking, I take care of anything that might interrupt his work, even if it means putting on protective gear and assisting in the laboratory. I'm not a scientist, my degree is in Finance, but I am quite intelligent and I can follow complicated orders. Now, the clinic says you may leave the facility for as long as four hours provided you wear a remote monitor and alarm, so when you're dressed, I am ready to take you on a tour of Gotham. "

"Oh. Okay," Nora replied automatically, but then the meaning sank in. "Wait—we're leaving the building?"

"Yes. As a start to becoming acclimated to the world as it is now." Yukie Kuwano nodded.

"But I don't know, I'm not ready—."

"If not now, then when?" the woman asked, reasonably. "The longer you wait, the harder it will become."

Nora did not feel like getting up or getting dressed, let alone going out, but the assistant looked so resolute and unmovable…and she didn't have the energy to fight about it. Giving in seemed like the simplest way to deal with it. "Excuse me," she said, pulling the curtain to divide the room in two.

Bra—a simple bandeau style meant for several sizes, panties, hose… In one garment bag was a dress of cobalt blue wool, very plain but the tags said…was this really a five hundred dollar dress? The style was very sixties, and for a moment she thought it hopelessly outdated, until she remembered that in thirty years, all sorts of clothes could have gone out of fashion and come back in several times over.

Shoes, simple ballerina flats… in that bag was a purse, there a hat, scarf and gloves. Taking the make up into the bathroom, she emptied the bag out on the sink. Not much, just a neutral rose lipstick, liquid eyeliner, a compact with eye shadow in grey tones. That showed taste and sense. Too many people tried to make blue shadow go with blue eyes. Oh, there was a bottle of make up remover, too, that was good.

Uncapping the eyeliner, she began to outline one eye—but her hand twitched and she smeared it.

"God damn it!" she swore, grabbing a tissue, soaking it in remover and swiping at her eye. Then she began to cry again. Never again would she have steady hands…never again would she dance…her husband had done terrible, terrible things…what was left for her in this world?

"Ms. Fries?" Yukie asked from the other room. "I am here to help you, if you will only let me."

"I don't want help!" she fumed.

"I see," the woman replied, her voice low. "Is it me, personally? I know I do not come across as—I'm sorry, I can get a nurse—."

"It isn't you," Nora said, "I just don't—You have the same symptoms, the way you move... How can you _stand_ it? With people staring, and everything?"

"I've had this condition my entire life," came the quiet, low voiced reply. "Sometimes people ask me outright if I am actually a robot. The more self-conscious I feel, the more robotic I become, the more people find me strange, the more self-conscious I become. It is a self-perpetuating cycle. I was very withdrawn for several years, once I faced the fact that I would never be normal, but there was someone who taught me that I was stronger than I knew."

"Am I supposed to care who?" Nora asked. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool surface mirror, feeling so very weary. Her breath fogged the glass.

"You should. It was Doctor Fries."

That got Nora to open the door. "Really?" she asked, putting all the skepticism she could muster into the word. "Do you know what he's done? The robberies? Holding schoolchildren for ransom? Supplying criminals with weapons?"

"I know," Yukie Kuwano answered. "In the first few years I worked for him, before I became his assistant and was still just an employee, he resorted to such measures when he had to. But they did not come easily or naturally to him, which was why, ever since I suggested I take on the role of his assistant, I have worked very hard to find alternative methods of financing his research. He is not an evil man; he never was an evil man, only a desperate one. May I?" She gestured to the make up.

Nora shrugged, spreading her hands. At that point, she did not truly care. Her husband's assistant picked up the liquid liner. "Close your eyes," she warned her, and Nora felt a gentle, cold stroke on first one eye, then the other. With the second eye, Yukie paused when her hand twitched, but then she went on to feather eye shadow on Nora's lids.

"There," she said when she was done. "I hope that is all right. I never applied make up to eyes with an eye crease before."

Nora opened them to see someone who looked more like the person she had been before. "It looks very nice. Thank you. I don't," she began. "I don't understand. What happened to Victor—why didn't it kill him? And I watched some of the news—people running around dressed as bats, killer clowns, people who can fly—what _happened_ to the world?"

"These are questions I can answer," Yukie replied. "You see, there is a rare recessive called the 'meta' gene. People who have two copies of it, like Dr. Fries, have the potential to change rather than die when exposed to catalysts like radiation or toxic chemicals. Less than point two percent of Earth's population have that potential, but since there are over seven billion humans alive today, that means there are at least a hundred thousand people who may develop strange powers or rare conditions, or have already done so..."

A couple of hours later, the two women sat in a roadside café high above the harbor. "You can't quite see your house from here, but it is behind that rock formation," Yukie said. They were now on first name terms, and as sometimes happens, had gone from being total strangers to acquaintances and even all the way to being friends.

"Nora, there is something more that I should tell you. When Dr. Fries became what he is now, his entire metabolism was affected, not simply his body temperature. He can no longer become intoxicated. He eats very little—less than a thousand calories a day, mostly in the form of a mixture of vodka and ice cream fortified with protein powder and a vitamin-mineral supplement. He is also aging far more slowly than a normal human.

"I know he seems much older than you at the moment, but there may come a time when you outstrip him. I know you can no longer have direct physical contact. Yet you will always be, to him, the person who taught him he was worthy of being loved."

Nora's eyes suddenly stung with tears, and she blotted them away carefully. "The way you speak of him –Yukie, are you in love with Victor?" She wanted Yukie to say yes, because then she could say to Victor, 'Yukie loves you. She loves you as you are, despite what you've done, and she has for twelve years. She's the one you should be with now.'

But instead Yukie smiled, very sweetly and very sadly, and said, "For several years, I thought I was. Dr. Fries has always treated me with courtesy and respect, even at the beginning when I had very little self-respect. And he also knows how to love. These are things I had very little of from the most important men in my life—my father, who never showed me a moment's affection, my little brother, who loved me until he learned to be ashamed of me—you see, in Japan, conformity is a virtue even today. There is some respect for those who _choose_ not to conform, but when you don't conform because you can't conform…My marriage was mercifully brief, for my husband was psychologically abusive, and afterward—when you believe you are worthless, you tend to be drawn to people who share your opinion of yourself. There were a couple of men who were happy to treat me as less than the dirt on their shoes. I don't like to dwell on that time. I did some very foolish things then.

"But one day I decided that I was going to change all of that. I decided I was going to leave Japan and go to the exact other side of the world, which according to my calculations was Gotham City. I blundered about here for a few weeks before I responded to a newspaper advertisement Dr. Fries placed, and then, over ten years, I rebuilt myself from the ground up while working for him. Eventually I came to realize what I felt for him was what a patient feels for a therapist. They call it 'transference,' because you transfer how much better you feel to the person who helped you feel that way. If he had ever noticed or responded to my feelings, I would have been shocked. Not merely shocked, but horrified and disappointed as well, because one of the things I value most in him is his devotion to you."

Her smile changed from sad to naughty. "Besides, then when I _did_ meet someone, I was ready."

Nora seized on that, because Yukie's story had been so truthful it hurt her heart. "Oh, you have a boyfriend! What's he like?"

Yukie laughed. "I am imagining the expression on his face if he heard himself described as someone's 'boyfriend'. He is_ very_ much a man in _every_ way."

"Does he know how to love, like Victor?" Nora asked.

"No," Yukie replied. "In fact, he is the sort of man any sensible woman would stay well away from, but…I told myself, 'Just once', and that 'Just once' was over two years ago, yet we are still together."

"Oh, Yukie! A bad boy, then? A bad _man_, I should say," she teased.

"A _very_ bad man," Yukie replied. "But he is good to me and I think I am good for him. Look, it's starting to snow." Outside over the harbor, soft feathers of pure white were lazily drifting down.

"It is! Oh, it's so beautiful." They watched it for a little while in silence. "Say, where's the waitress got to? I could use a top up on this coffee." Nora looked around. "It's dead in here today. Other than us, there's only about six people in here, and this ought to be the lunch hour rush. I wonder how they stay in business."

"It is not usually like this…" Yukie frowned, looking around as well. "Nora…I am sorry. I should have been paying more attention to the room."

"What? What's wrong?"

"Never mind that now. Go. Go toward the ladies' room, there is an emergency exit that way. Leave the building and call the police. Don't run, but go_ now_."

"Too late," someone said, turning around from the booth behind Nora.

TBC…

* * *

A/N: This chapter was actually going to be the scene between Nora and Victor, but the damn plot bunnies stepped in and this is what you get. Hope you enjoy it!

Thank you to my friends Swordstitcher and Tev for reviewing. Love ya!


	10. Nora, Rose, Nora: Collateral Damage

**Attention: If you are a long term reader of this fic, this is NOT the new chapter. There is a new first chapter and significant changes have been made to other chapters in between. **

* * *

_He has a gun. They all have guns_.

What struck Nora most was how _calm_ Yukie was. Her right hand crept to the blunt table knife before her as she met the eyes of the man in the booth behind her. "Is this random or specific?" she asked.

"Specific. Your man is going to learn a lesson today. Leave that where it is," he commanded her. "Larry, get their purses and make sure you've got their phones. Get that waiter in here, too," he added to another man.

Larry was a very large man in a grimy old pea coat, and he pawed through the purses after he collected them. "Yeah, got'em," he confirmed.

"Good." Two thugs propelled a young man into the room, and the leader glanced his way, pointing at Yukie. "Is that the woman who was with Wilson last night?"

"Uh, if you mean the big guy with the white hair and the eye patch, then yes," the young man said.

"You're sure?"

"Well, he answered the door in a robe, and she was still in bed, so I guess so. They seemed pretty happy with each other."

"Okay, then." The leader nodded, and…and one of his men shot the young man in the head. Nora cried out as blood and matter splattered out over the floor.

"Funny," the leader sat down next to Nora, shoving her over so he could look Yukie in the face at close range. "Sure, he's old and scarred and fucked up, but still, with all the money he's got, you're not what I'd have expected he'd pick for fun and games. Hah," he shook his head. "That's why you've been so hard to find. Okay, make sure you don't mark her face or hands, and don't touch anything in her purse. Our client wants her IDed right away."

"Before you proceed with your plan to murder and defile me, I believe it is worth pointing out that my companion is Nora Fries," Yukie said, still calm and tranquil. She picked up her tea and drank a swallow, noisy in the quiet café. "That is to say, she is the wife of my employer, Dr. Fries, or Mr. Freeze as he is better known. He will pay you better for her life than whoever sent you will for my death. He will also pay you whatever they are paying you for me."

"Tempting," the leader said after a moment's thought, "but no. That's no way to build up a rep. She'll just have to be collateral damage. Now—."

Yukie interrupted. "You will have very little time to trade on that reputation, because you will not have long to live. I don't know if my murder will cause Slade Wilson even a moment's grief, but you will have injured him in his pride, and that he will not countenance. You may scoff all you please, but not one of you—not one—would dare face him. Instead you came after me. He will make it a point of finding out who killed me and who hired you, and he will not stop until all those responsible are dead. Is your client paying you enough money to make dying worth it?"

She still held her tea cup, and now she took another sip, her eyes going from one man to another. "Yes, I _am_ unnervingly calm. Did you think you were the first to track me down? For that matter, did anyone tell you how I met him? We were both competing in a martial arts championship. I admit I am not the greatest hand-to-hand combat fighter in the world; that distinction belongs to Lady Shiva. I am not even in the top hundred, but I know, by sight and name, everyone who is and _none of them are in this room right now_."

Now Nora could practically smell the fear sweat on the men. Yukie continued. "I don't even bother telling Slade about incidents like this. I suggest that you walk away now. If you choose not to—there are eight of you to one of me and you have guns where I do not, so clearly this will be a case of self-defense and no jury will convict me."

"You do talk a good game," the leader admitted, "but like you said, we have guns, and then there's Mrs. Fries here. You won't—." He had laid both hands flat on the tabletop.

With that, Yukie put down her teacup, seized the knife, and stabbed it right through his hand into the table underneath. Blood spurted out, the man howled, and then things started happening very fast.

The men went for their guns, but when they tried to fire, nothing happened. Yukie was up. Her hands dove into her coat pockets and came out with… a pair of small wooden barbells? Then she began to dance. Her Huntingdon's like movements, for the first time, became something with flow and grace. A sidestep, a half-fouette devant—her arm flew out to elbow a man in the solar plexus and then her hand snapped up to jab him in the chin with the end of the barbell, twice. He went down. A leap en passant, to the next man…

That was how Nora saw it, with the eyes of a dancer and choreographer. She had only seen one martial arts movie in her life, when she and Victor had the power go out one humid August night, and that was _Silent Rage_, starring Chuck Norris. They only went to it because their apartment was unlivable without air conditioning and the movie theater was nice and cool. As movies went, it was, well, stupid, but she had been quite impressed with the choreography that went into the fight scene, and it _was_ correct and appropriate to call it choreography. Dance was the basis of all good movement, after all.

* * *

Meanwhile: Rose Wilson, AKA Ravager, was sitting in the break room of Titans Tower playing Candy Crush Saga on her phone, because it was actually non-deterministic polynomial-time hard, and that was important when you could see several moves into the future and were hardly ever surprised. She had never spent a penny on extra lives and was currently up to level 523. She was so absorbed that when her phone actually rang, she jumped, causing Tim Drake AKA Red Robin to glance up from his book.

The caller's name was S. Wilson. That was…really unexpected. She stared at it for several rings, wondering if she should answer or not, wondering what would happen if she did. She had figured out that he had only tried to kill her in order to get the Titans to accept her. Since then, she hadn't heard from him.

_If I answer this, I might regret it, but if I don't—I'll always wonder. Who am I kidding? If I don't and he really wants to get in contact with me, he'll find a way, and I'll like it even less_. Bowing to the inevitable, she answered.

"H-Hello?" she asked, wishing her voice didn't quaver.

"Hi," came the curt reply. "How are you doing?"

"Okay, I guess," she said. He would never apologize for what he did to her. Never. "Better some days than others. So, since I'm sure you're paying somebody to keep tabs on me, why are you really calling?"

"I've been seeing someone for a while now. I thought it was time you knew about her."

"Seeing somebody? You mean a psychiatrist?" she asked. "Or…a girlfriend?"

"The second," he replied, "Her name is Yukie."

Rose wasn't sure how to take the news. She knew her father hadn't exactly been a monk since her parents split up, and everybody knew about him and Vigilante—the photo of them kissing in public had made the tabloids, and then of course her mom had tried to kill them. She decided to try and be open minded about Yukie. "So—I guess she's Japanese, right? What's she like?"

"She's an expert in Jian Wu, but primarily a noncombatant. That's how I met her. She has a degree in finance. In addition to Japanese and English, she speaks Mandarin and French."

"Da—," Remembering that Tim was right there, she converted _Dad_ into "Dat's not what I meant. Those are_facts_. What's she _like_?"

"She's not shy but she's quiet. She likes Shakespearian tragedies because of Kurosawa's films. She never drinks coffee. She's very private. After two years, I still don't know exactly how old she is…and I can sleep, with her."

"Well, that last part's kind of the whole point, isn't it?" she sniped at him, because, well,_ewww_.

Her father was silent for a moment. "This was a mistake. Forget it." He hung up.

"Well, fine!" she snarled at the phone.

Tim propped his chin in his hand and narrowed his eyes. "There's only one person I know of who you're _that_angry at," he observed.

If there was anyone who understood what it was like to have a difficult father, (or father figure in his case), one who you loved, whose approval you needed but who you sometimes hated and often resented for helping make you who you were, it was Tim.

"Yeah, it was him. He has a girlfriend and wanted to boast about it."

She was ready to go back to Candy Crush, but Tim looked very thoughtful and sat up straight. "Really? How long has he been seeing her?"

"Um—at least two years, I think. Why?"

"Because the other day, I realized that, although he's been, uh, _working_ steadily," by which he meant assassinating people, "he hasn't gone psychotic for at least a couple of years. Think back. He's been…who he is, but he's been on top of things. Clear-headed. No innocents, no collateral damage. It was after your brother Grant died that he first lost it, right? And then after he lost your mother,_that_ was bad."

"You mean…you think that's the connection? That having somebody in his life sort of stabilizes him? _Vigilante_ didn't." Rose made the wrong move by mistake and ran out of lives. "Damn it!"

"He didn't bother to call you about Vigilante, did he? Maybe she wasn't important enough to him."

"And that means Yukie is…Oh. Oh, damn it!" She'd made more than one wrong move. "I think—I think I misunderstood him. He said he could sleep with her, and I thought—. He _wasn't _boasting about his sex life. He meant he could _sleep_ when he was with her. Damn it!" Quickly, she hit the redial, and waited. It went to voice mail, of course. He would answer only when he felt like it.

"Um. Hi, Dad. It's me. I—wanted to say I'm sorry. I misunderstood. I'd like to hear more about Yukie, and, uh, I'd like to meet her. If that's okay. I hope it's okay. Please call me back?" She hung up.

"I take it he had problems with insomnia?" Tim asked.

"Yes. He'd go days without sleeping. He practically needed a sensory deprivation chamber to get to sleep. Sometimes I wish I had one myself. It was… Grant was the only one of us who remembers him at all from before—hell, he was the only one of us _conceived_ before they administered the serum to Dad. When the North Koreans invaded our house, Joey was only five, and Dad didn't know she was pregnant with me yet, so Mom faked our deaths, and I didn't even meet him until I was six or so. He and Mom were on and off for years…I don't remember them ever being happy together. She was always afraid—afraid _of_ him, afraid _for_ all of us, and angry, too. He was angry and not always in control and her being afraid just made him worse, I think.

"Now I'm trying to imagine him in a healthy relationship, and…I think it's going to break my brain. I—does she know what he does? If she does and she's still seeing him, what does that say about her? If she doesn't then is this even really a relationship, or just him deluding her? What if this is one of those Harley Quinn things?"

"Uh—I think you're freaking out a little?" Tim tried to intervene.

"Damn right I'm freaking out a little! This woman could wind up being my stepmother!"

"…aaand hyperventilating while jumping ahead of things. Can you, uh, dial it down a little? What do you actually know about her?"

"Well, her name is Yukie, she knows Jian Wu, she has a degree in finance, speaks four languages—which is _pretty_ impressive but still miles behind him—and—how do Shakespeare's tragedies connect up with some director named Kurosawa, anyway?"

"Now that I can answer! _Throne of Blood_ is based on Macbeth, while _Ran_ is King Lear with sons instead of daughters. Both have samurai." Tim explained.

Rose's eyes grew wide. "Shakespeare…with _samurai_? This really exists, and you're not putting me on? It would make listening to all that iambic pentameter so worth it!"

"Well, they are in Japanese, so it's paraphrased, not word for word, and—."

"Why didn't anybody tell me about this before? Do you know how much easier that makes English class? I am streaming at least one of these tonight—I just—," She suddenly deflated. "I just hope this is for real, and that she's at least nice."

"Um-," Tim screwed his face up in thought. "Yukie-Do you know if she lives in Gotham City? A few days ago, I ran into a woman by the name of Yukime Kuwano. Yukie could be a nickname. She's Mr. Freeze's assistant."

Rose whirled to seize Tim by his collar, yanking him up off the chair. "Tell. Me. Everything."

"Ack," he choked, prying her hands loose. "It probably isn't the same woman. There has to be more than one woman named Yukie in the United States, let alone the world."

"You want to bet? If she works for Freeze, that ups the chance about a hundred times. Now talk!"

"Okay, you definitely need to cool it..."

* * *

Back in the café: "What—Why—How did—?" Nora tried, and paused to sort out which question to ask first. "Why didn't their guns work?"

Yukie wiped blood off one of her wooden barbells, and replied, "Because of this." Her hand went into her coat pocket and brought out a gadget. "It's a jammer which Doctor Fries invented. Unfortunately, it's short range and has to be pin-pointed on a particular device. A jammer which would emit a blanket field would also be too heavy to carry. That was why I kept talking for so long; I was using it on their guns. Do any of them seem dead?"

"Uh…" Nora knew how to check for a pulse, so she did. "No, they're all still breathing. Except for the man they shot."

"I wish I could have jammed that gun in time." She sounded as though she really regretted it.

"I've never seen someone die like that before," Nora looked down at his body. "It's so sudden and so final. One moment, a talking breathing person—the next—. We have to call the police."

"Yes. Given that the eight of them are all alive and that the Gotham police are quite used to scenes such as this, they won't even bother to take us down to the station. They'll just take our statements and take them away."

"You sound as though you have first-hand experience," Nora looked around at the wreckage of the café. Not so much wreckage as disorder, actually. Not much was broken.

"This is the…fourth time someone has come after me. However, before I call them—I would never encourage you to lie to the police, but it will be much easier if we…elect not to share why these bakabakashi chose us. _They_ certainly will not want to explain why."

From the tone and context, Nora guessed that 'bakabakashi' was a Japanese insult. (Which it was. Yukie was not given to peppering Japanese throughout her English, but sometimes you simply have to say what you mean in your first language because saying it in another language is never as satisfactory.)

"You mean don't mention that they were after you because of that guy you're seeing."

"Yes." Yukie went over to the ice machine and took a handful, which she rubbed over her red, flushed face.

"What did he do that they're after you?"

"I don't know precisely why, but it should suffice to say that he is a professional assassin." She bent her neck to ice the back of it, letting the melt drip down under her collar.

"A—You're kidd-You're _not _kidding. How did you get involved with a hired killer?"

Yukie smiled. "As I told them, it was at a martial arts championship, and we were the last two left standing. First I nearly cut his ear off and then he nearly slit my throat. I won on a technicality, but subsequent events illuminated exactly why he let me win."

"You mean he did it to get into your pants?" Nora asked.

Yukie grinned this time. "As you say."

"That night?" Her friend nodded. "_Yuki_e_!_" she half scolded, half teased.

"As I said before, I told myself, 'Just once'."

"It's all right. I, uh, kind of seduced Victor very suddenly myself, and at the time I didn't see us still being together at the end of the semester, let alone getting married. What are those wooden barbell things you were fighting with?"

"They're called yawara sticks, and they're why I don't have hands like a stevedore's. Very good for bone breaks and pressure point strikes. I prefer wood over metal or plastic. They don't set off metal detectors and they're not obviously weapons. Now—I think they must have shut the café staff in the freezer. Can you let them out while I call the police?"

"Of course," Nora said. This was like the time the lead set designer for the ballet had that accident with the nail gun, she decided. It made a horrible, gory mess, but panicking wouldn't have done any good and probably would have made things worse. Sometimes you had to suck it up and deal with it. Once you decided that, everything fell into place.

Something had fallen into place inside her as well. Watching Yukie in action— someone as disadvantaged as Nora herself was in her movement—had wakened in her a resolve. _Even if I can't return to classical ballet, I can still dance. With time, with determination, I will make myself into something new_.

* * *

A/N: Bakabakashi means 'idiot'. I know that originally Rose was the daughter Slade had with Lilian Worth, a Cambodian prostitute, but in the New 52 she is the youngest child he had with Adeline. That may simply have been an error on the part of DC. Anyhow, I'm going with it.

So, my pal Tev left a review last chapter that I thought made a good point, which resulted in the middle part of this chapter. It's a trial run. (I have her permission to quote this here.)

_'While I like what you are doing with Nora here, it does seem as though this story is evolving away from the original concept. These things happen, but it does mean this is barely an Arkham fic at all at this point._

_This is just a suggestion, and since I am hooked, I will keep reading whatever you do with it, but since Slade mentioned telling his daughter about Yukie, and IIRC, she is/was/who the hell knows now since the New 52 is making mincemeat of seventy-five years of canon/ a member of the Teen Titans, maybe you should throw them into the mix and move this over into one of the Titan archives? You might have to go back and work them into the story earlier, but it could be worth the time and effort to establish this in a category where it fits better.'_

My other great pal, Swordstitcher, has also pointed out that I'm writing about villains/anti-heroes who are lesser known among Bat-fans, which translates to fewer readers, but I know those readers I have are very into it and go back to reread chapters several times. Is this a fair and reasonable change to make to this story? I might have to take it down and repost chapter by chapter after a rewrite. Any opinions and insights would be welcome.


	11. Victor, Rose, Yukie: Longing

Victor Fries waited in his laboratory for a call that did not come. _What if Yukie cannot make Nora understand? _He told himself his fears were groundless. His assistant was adept at smoothing things out; she had done so for him for years, keeping the peace between him and the Rogues. Yet the hours passed and still there was no call. It began to snow.

Finally, just when he managed to divert himself with a book, he heard the outer door to the facility unlock, and then the inner door irised open.

"—and that's how you get in down here. I have never brought anyone here, incidentally. It would be a breach of both trust and security." Yukie said.

"It'll take me a few tries before I can unlock it on my own," came that familiar, well-loved voice. "Brrr, it's colder in here than it is out there."

"Nora!" He abandoned his book and hastened to the entryway. "Yukie, why bring her in down here? This isn't how I meant it to go."

Yukie raised a hand as she slipped past on the way to her own quarters, then silently pointed at Nora.

"Because if we're going to have a life together, then I need to know everything and get to go everywhere," Nora said firmly. "No secrets, Victor. Even if you think it's for my own good."

"Nora, I—." She was _here_, with snowflakes dusting her hat and her coat, and she was lovely, so lovely. "If you can forgive me, it is more than I deserve."

"You better believe it, so you have to get to work on deserving it, buddy," she said, poking him in the chest with a gloved figure. Dropping the playful pose, she turned serious. "I won't lie and say I wasn't upset when I found out what you did. I never asked you to get obsessed or to devote your life to finding a cure. I never wanted you to bury yourself in research—in fact, I wanted the opposite. Of course you'll say you did it out of love for me. I have never doubted you loved me. I only wish _you_ loved you as much as I do. That was your cue to hug me, by the way," she added.

He was not wearing an environmental suit, but she had on a winter coat. "I'm afraid this is going to be quick," he said, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin briefly on her head.

"Heh_, that_ was what you said the day I stole your sock," she murmured. When they parted, she caught his eyes and fixed them with her own. "Victor, I don't want to make any promises or any decisions right now or for the foreseeable future. I think too much has happened too fast, and until I'm more grounded—well, can you be patient with me? I warn you, I'm going to be freaked out sometimes. I'm likely to cry at any time, and—do you think you can cope?"

"Yes," he gasped. "I can. Because it's you."

* * *

There were things the serum helped with, such as picking up languages and thinking strategically, and then there were things it didn't, like essay writing. Rose finally had a topic, though: From _Thane of Cawdor to Throne of Blood: Comparing and Contrasting Shakespeare's Macbeth with Kurosawa's Kumonosu-Jo_. The biggest difference she could see was having the Lady Macbeth character be pregnant, which gave 'Macbeth' a perfect motive for doing away with the character who would 'be king hereafter', so she went into detail about it. The essay was due very soon, December 23rd, the day before winter break.

Already she was starting to pick up some Japanese, just from watching the movie, because the language center of her brain went to work on it without her conscious mind getting involved, the same way a preverbal baby's would. Not much as yet, just that sentences that ended with 'ka' were always questions, things like that. The written language would take actual study.

Her phone rang. It was him_. I have to remember this: He's one of the most charismatic and manipulative people alive. Just because he's my father doesn't cancel that out. I have to be wary._

"Hi, Dad," she said. "Uh—I just finished watching Throne of Blood. At the end, did you know they didn't do any special effects with the arrows? I was so amazed that they could do that scene without computers that I looked it up. They hired professional archers. All of it was real and live on set. No wonder Toshiro Mifune looked so harrowed in that scene. No pun intended."

"Hah," he uttered in appreciation. "So, what else did you want to know?"

"About Yukie? Well—what's her full name? Where does she live, what does she do, about how old is she, what's she look like—stuff like that."

"Yukime Kuwano is her full name and she lives in the Gotham area." **_Not _**_the same woman? Take** that**, Tim!_ "If I say she's a personal assistant, it would give you the wrong idea. Let's say she's someone else's Wintergreen and leave it at that. As for her age, I'd say mid thirties. She's tall for a Japanese woman, about five-seven, built lean. She's not what most people would call beautiful, but most people are idiots."

"Does she—does she know who you are? I mean, really know?" Rose tensed up, waiting for an answer.

"She knew before we ever met."

"How does she deal with it?"

He took his time answering. "She doesn't get off on the danger—it doesn't bother her, but it's no thrill either. She does what she can to avoid the notoriety—never demands to go where she can be seen on my arm. She's indifferent to the money. From the very start it's been, unspoken, that if I invite her, I make the arrangements and pay. If she invites me, she arranges things and pays. I have never given her a dime. She's never drug me past a shop window and cooed over something by way of a hint, either. She's happy just to be with me."

His words came out as though they were fighting their way to the surface. She wondered if that was genuine feeling or some subtle manipulation on his part.

"Oh. But what about…what you do? She knows what you do, right? Not just the bodyguard stuff, but—the rest."

"That I kill people for money? Yes."

"How does she deal with that?"

"Surprisingly," he replied. "Her attitude is something like that of a person who's strongly against animal cruelty, but not to the point of going vegan."

That took a minute for Rose to work out. "So…it's sort of like…it's okay to eat meat as long as the animal had a decent life and doesn't suffer at the end?"

"That's exactly what I meant. As long as an assassin practices the appropriate professional ethics, she's fine with it."

"Oookay. I don't really know how to take that, but—," Rose changed the subject. "When can I meet her?"

"We're leaving for Japan in a couple of weeks—."

"You're taking her to Japan?"

"Actually,_she's_ taking _me_ to Japan." There was a hint of smugness in his voice when he said that. "I've been there before, but not to see the sights. We'll be leaving January ninth, and we should be back the first week of March, give or take."

"From January to March—wow, that's a long trip. So, we'll meet up over the holidays, then?" Rose asked.

"No. Better to wait until we get back."

"Why? That's such a long time." She could hear a slight whiny note entering her voice, and suppressed it.

"After eight weeks, we'll know whether we can live together or not. If we can't, there's no point in you meeting her. If we can, then there'll be plenty of time."

"Oh…Wait a minute. Can she take that much time off work? What's her employer going to do without her?"

"Her work for him is done and over with, and she doesn't have another job lined up immediately. Two years ago, Ra's Al Ghul offered her a blank check to work for him and left it open-ended. If there's ever going to be a time to persuade her I'm a better deal, it's now, before he can renew his offer."

"Uh—are you talking about head-hunting her or wooing her?" Rose asked, confused.

"There's a difference?"

"I shouldn't have to explain it," she told her father. "So she's taking you to Japan? You'd better be getting her something amazing for Christmas, that's all I can say."

"I haven't gotten her anything for Christmas. We've never exchanged gifts, for one thing, and for another, she's not Christian."

"What? Dad! Sheesh! Don't you know _anything_ about women? I don't care what faith she is or what you've done on other holidays. She's taking you to Japan for two months! If you're serious about her, you _have_ to get her something, and it should be the equivalent or even better. I mean it!"

He _laughed_. Her father, Slade Wilson, Deathstroke, the Terminator _laughed_, and it was a _real_ laugh, not mocking or sarcastic. "Then what do you suggest?"

"A diamond necklace. No, a diamond necklace _and_ matching earrings. Or a new car. Whichever you think she'd like better. I advise jewelry, though."

"I've never seen her wear jewelry set with stones," he said. "She might not like them."

"Well, she's your girlfriend, not mine. Whatever you think looks like her, then. Make it something she can wear often, not just for fancy. And, uh, Dad?" She paused.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"I'm happy for you. I hope you have a really good time in Japan, and that everything works out."

"Thanks, sweetheart. Take care of yourself, Rosie." He hung up.

Rosie. He hadn't called her that since she was ten. _That was the longest conversation I ever had with him—and the most positive. I wish I knew whether this was for real or if he's just manipulating me again. Of course, even if he is telling the truth, he could still be manipulating me with it. But the way he talked about her—that she wasn't what most people call beautiful, and that she loves him for him… I hope this is for real. But I have to wait ten weeks to find out! _

She was only sixteen. To her, ten weeks was forever. It was intolerable. But maybe, if she played her cards right, she wouldn't have to...

She didn't realize someone overheard her. Someone with green skin.

* * *

_Of all those descended from me, you were the dearest to me, because whatever we are, we are the same. Your skin, your faintness in the heat, are mine. As time passes, you will be taken for your little sister's younger sister, and then for her daughter, and even perhaps her granddaughter. You may have to move and change your name several times. I did._

_We are not like other people. What we are, I do not know, but I was told, years ago, that if I wanted to know what I was and why, I should give up every earthly tie and ascend Mount Hakkoda before the plum trees blossom in the spring. _

_I never went there. Perhaps you will find the courage I never had. I love you, my little snow princess. Grandma._

Yukie read the message again, then put the note away. She looked at the little alcove she had set up in her quarters, at the pine branch in the black lacquer vase—and at the black iron incense burner next to it. It was in the shape of a woven rattan ball, one of a set of four for the four seasons of the year. Black iron was for winter. The spring burner was a cherry blossom design in silver; the summer one, bronze lotuses, and the autumn burner, maple leaves in a beautiful copper-silver alloy called shibuichi. Pulling out her phone, she called up the woodcut image Ra's Al Ghul had sent her that morning.

There was Miss Carnation, the beautiful courtesan of two hundred years past, in her luxurious furisode, a black iron incense burner in the shape of a rattan ball at her feet. To her eyes, the burner in the image and the burner her grandmother had given her were identical.

The same incense burner, the same obi, the same kimono…

_How old **were** you when you died, Grandmother? How often did you move and change your name?_

_What did I inherit besides some of your old things?_

Her grandmother had died in the intolerable heat of a Kyoto summer when the air conditioning failed. Heatstroke, of course. Yukie might well die the same way. She had come close to it twice.

_Well, I have brought Victor and Nora together, and now the rest is up to them. I can give up my ties to the elder brother/father I never had, and do so with a whole heart. I can donate the embryos to childless Asian couples seeking a daughter, and that undoes another tie_.

That left one last earthly tie. Slade.

_I must bid farewell to him, too._

_I must._

_I will…_

A/N: Yukime literally means 'Lady Snow' or 'Snow Princess'. My thanks to my reviewers: paisleyluv96, fandelivres, and of course, Tev! I think you were very right.


	12. Yukie: Tea With The Demon's Head

When one decided at the last minute to fly from Gotham City to Reno, Nevada on December 23rd, one had to take what one could get, and today that involved changing planes in Minneapolis. Unfortunately, the airline had just announced her connecting flight was going to be delayed. Yukie had her tablet and was never bored as long as she could read, but before she could even open the book file, her phone rang.

It was Ra's Al Ghul. In flawless Japanese he said, "Miss Kuwano, it would give a very old man great pleasure if you could take tea with him in the Ordway Park Garden Teahouse at the Como Park Zoo and Conservatory…in half an hour. You need not worry about missing your flight. It will be delayed until you board. There is a car and driver waiting for you outside Terminal 2."

She was not terribly surprised. This was clearly the follow up to the email message he'd sent several days before. "I am greatly honored," she replied in the same language. "Of course I shall send Mr. Wilson a message about the delay."

"Of course," Ra's said, with no surprise in his voice. Yet she was sure no earthly consideration could keep Ra's Al Ghul from doing as he pleased, not even the oblique threat of Deathstroke's vengeance. Therefore she did not tell Slade who or why her plane would be late. If Ra's did not kill her, she would have to explain everything, and if he did, she would either be well on her way to her next existence and not care, or she would come back as an extremely vengeful ghost, in which case Slade would be the least of his worries. She was betting on the latter.

The car was a Rolls Royce, the driver competent, respectful, and largely silent. Minneapolis was decked out for the holiday, covered in snow, and therefore looked its best. The conservatory grounds were especially beautiful, and the groundskeepers had taken the trouble of sweeping the paths to the tea house in the Japanese style garden. In Yukie's opinion, American attempts at recreating Japanese gardens were inherently doomed to failure, even if they hired master gardeners from Japan, and the reason was that they_ tried_ too hard. Instead of telling the master gardener to design_** a**_ garden, they told them they wanted a _Japanese_ garden, and that meant cramming every element of a Japanese garden into the available space.

Ra's had not gone to all this trouble to invite her to take tea in the British style, with cucumber sandwiches and cream scones. No, this was to be according to the ritual of the tea ceremony, which was closer to a religious rite. (Hopefully this was to be an informal tea, rather than the full four hour ritual.)

The principle behind the Way of Tea was this: Life is brief and uncertain, therefore we must take joy in the moment and in our friends, for we never know when or if we will see them again. Making tea for them with one's own hands, sitting and sharing something sweet like fruit to symbolize the good things in life before drinking the tea, which is bitter and symbolic of the miseries of life, shows the love one bears them. One could bring the Way of Tea into every aspect of life, into every meal cooked, every load of laundry, every act done for another person. Enjoy the now, for now is all we ever have.

Entering the tea house, she changed out of her boots into the provided slippers, washed her hands and rinsed her mouth in the stone basin of water provided in the waiting room, in accordance with custom. The water was still warm, a thoughtful touch on a frigid day. Then she bent down to enter through the low-linteled door, symbolic of equality—everyone humbled themselves before sharing the ritual, great and small alike.

Ra's was already within, and he greeted her with a silent bow as the host. She returned it, and knelt upon the floor. The room was austere and unfurnished, as a tea room should be, and the only heat source was the hearth for heating water. No matter; she did not mind the cold as other people did. As he began cleaning the utensils, she looked around the room.

There was always a place in a tea house for a scroll and a vase—the scroll could be either a painting or a piece of calligraphy, perhaps a poem to meditate on, and the vase was always for a seasonal flower. This being December, the flower was a branch of holly, and instead of a scroll—it was the print of Miss Carnation.

"Yes," Ra's said, interpreting her slight indrawn breath when she saw it. "I knew your grandmother. Not in the Biblical sense, I assure you. You, of course, know how old_ I_ am said to be."

"It is said you are centuries old," she said. "However, many things are said, both true and false. I do not know which this is."

"It is true. I appear to be a vigorous fifty. I am, however, a vigorous four hundred and forty-eight. Possibly four hundred and fifty-three. The years were not kept track of so diligently then as now. As you may imagine, I travel extensively, and it was upon my first visit to Japan that I met your celebrated grandmother. She was then a courtesan at the Bower of Fragrances. No common prostitute, not she, but a very elite entertainer who had but one patron at a time and kept him a year or more. She was about to retire and marry her last patron, for she was with child. Whether it was his or not, I do not know, but as it turned out to be a boy and he had no other sons, he was delighted to claim paternity. That was in the year…1809. Possibly 1810."

The utensils were now clean. He picked up a bowl full of tangerines and presented it to her with both hands. "Please. Have some."

The fruit glowed in the thin winter sunlight. She took one and began peeling it. "Thank you." Conversation was not part of the ceremony at that point, but he had initiated it.

He nodded. "Thank you for not insisting that could not be true."

"I hope I would never be so boring. There are stranger things in this world."

"You are not boring." Next he took up the canister of green tea powder and measured out three scoops. "I did not meet her again until 1922. She was then—or, I should say, again, working as a courtesan in the Jade Moon House in Beijing. We recognized one another, and I do not know which of us was more surprised. I have met a few natural long-lifers over the years, but she had not. We had a very long and fascinating conversation, during which she told me about her son—about her first son, I should say, for she had several. He was, in fact, her first child, and because she was about fifty when he was born, she thought he would be her last and only. She looked no older than you when I met her first. Or when I met her in Beijing, for that matter.

"She was her patron's third wife, polygamy being a common practice. As you might imagine, despite her status in the household as mother of the heir, her husband's first wife did her best to make life unpleasant for her. After a few years, she allowed the first wife to adopt her son for certain financial compensation, and moved to Kyoto. This was necessary because if she stayed any longer, they would have noticed she was not aging. That pattern repeated itself with variations over the next hundred years, and she had five more sons with various fathers by 1922." He poured water into the tea bowl and began whisking the brew into a froth.

Yukie ate a segment of tangerine, savoring the tartness on her tongue. "Yet my mother was born in 1949. As far as I knew, she was my grandmother's only child."

"So she was—or rather, she was the only child of your grandmother's last marriage, and her only daughter. I kept track of your grandmother after meeting her a second time. When your mother was of marriageable age, I arranged for her to marry your father—who was the descendant of your granddam's first son. Five generations removed made them very distant cousins, well beyond the stigma of incest. In promoting that match, I hoped to recreate the gene complex which produced your grandmother in the first place." He looked out the window of the tea house, at the children dashing around the gardens in the snow.

"Longevity and fertility rarely march together," he commented. "One sacrifices quantity of life for quality of life. I myself fathered only a handful of children, and of them, only one was born sound in both body and mind, my daughter Talia. Or so I thought, for Talia has done a very foolish thing.

"Up until the last few decades of the last century, there was only one way of bringing new human beings into the world, by conceiving them and gestating them in a woman's belly. These days, they can take the healthy ovum of one woman, insert the DNA of another into it, mix it with the seed of a man who may never have met, let alone touched, either one, put the resultant embryo into the womb of a third woman, and then give the child over to a fourth woman who will call herself its mother, and like as not she will hire a fifth to raise it for her.

"Now the technology exists that cuts the human element out of the gestation, and the child conceived in a test tube may spend nine months in it. What might go wrong with that, even if the child be whole and healthy physically?"

Yukie did not see the reason for the abrupt change of subject, but she was not about to be rude. "I would guess, and I guess as a woman and not a scientist, that a gestation chamber differs from a womb. In the womb, a child hears and feels his mother's heartbeat, hears her voice, the voice of his father, if he lives with them. It feels tremors when she walks, it kicks and feels her flesh give, it absorbs myriad sensations from the world around it, filtered through her body. Even a deaf child will still feel sound as physical vibration. Such is the common human experience.

"Without that—would such a child feel any connection to the human race? I would guess that such a child would suffer from an inability to bond to others, an inability to feel empathy, and perhaps be unable to love."

Ra's Al Ghul nodded. "Very well—and accurately—reasoned. Your grandmother was both an excellent wife and mother. She was nurturing by nature."

"I know it well. She left me a letter to be read after she died. In it she said that of all those descended of her, I alone was like her. This is what she meant, I think. You are not my father, but you are, in a sense, my progenitor. To what end was I conceived and born, sir?"

"Not to an end," he said, "but a beginning, shall we say?" He held out the bowl full of tea.

She took it in both hands, admiring the shape of it. It had a silky ivory glaze over roughly shaped clay, haphazardly uneven and imperfect, yet beautiful. "Such an evocative piece," she said. Appreciation of the bowl and other utensils was part of the ceremony. "I shall think of all the distinguished people who must have drunk from it before me." She turned it carefully before she set her lips to the rim and drank deeply.

Lowering the bowl, she wiped the place where her mouth came into contact with it, and passed it back to him. Ordinarily there would have been several other guests, but they were alone there in an ocean of silence. "Yet I am an end," she pointed out, "as I am ungainly, defective and sterile."

"No more ungainly and defective than this bowl, which exists to demonstrate the beauty in imperfection. And, if you are indeed like your grandmother, you may not be sterile after all. You may simply be too young as yet." He drank, and she watched his Adam's Apple bob in his throat.

"Do you think to beg a child of me?" she asked. "Or ask to give me two?" Those she said in English: it was a paraphrase of a line from Shakespeare's Henry the Sixth, part 3.

"I have already a child of yours," he said. "Twenty of them, in fact."

It was good that she was not holding the tea bowl at that moment, because if she did not drop it, she would have been tempted to throw it at his head. "My daughters!"

"Your near-clones," he corrected. "That was a very useful inspiration of yours. Do not fear. I will be most careful with them, and choose their families from among my most trustworthy followers. You yourself signed them away for whoever might ask for them, and I made a most sizeable donation to the clinic. Or, if you so choose, I will give you an opportunity to earn them back."

"But…but I am so _tired_," she said. "I have worked for twelve years without more than three days off in a row. I want—I _need_ to rest."

He passed her the bowl again, and observed her closely. "I see. Well, I can give you…six months, shall we say? Rest, recuperate, enjoy the company of Mr. Wilson, and your upcoming visit to Japan—and then we shall talk again."

She drank. What more could she do? Yet a thought occurred to her even as she swallowed the bitter brew. "What do you know about Mount Hakkoda?" she asked.

"Mount Hakkoda?" he repeated, and his bewilderment was both evident and convincing. "As I recall…there was an infamous military disaster there, was there not? Why? Is there something I should know about it?"

"No," she said, lowering her eyes. "My grandmother never went there, but she always wanted to. That is all_._" _ So Ra's Al Ghul has nothing to do with whatever I might find there. That makes sense—he may have had something to do with my existence, but Grandmother came into the world unbidden by him._ "Did she ever tell you anything about her parents or her people?"

"Very little, in all truth," he admitted. "She was born a peasant in what would become Shiga prefecture. She became a courtesan in her teens in order to help support her family. That is all I know."

"Thank you," Yukie murmured. "Through your reminiscences, I feel closer to her in spirit than ever." She took a second tangerine. "Such a beautiful winter day, and how golden this fruit is!"

* * *

A/N: Ra's Al Ghul is of course thinking of his grandson, Damian Wayne, when he talks about how foolish Talia has been and refers to a child gestated in a tube.

Prostitution is said to be the world's oldest profession, and therefore, statistically speaking, we all probably have one somewhere in our family trees. A courtesan occupies a rung somewhere between a geisha, who is an artist with a 'patron' who pays the bills and enjoys her favors, and a high-class call girl. Courtesans were expected to be able to liven up a party with conversation, music, party games, and witty remarks. Many wrote poetry that survives until this day. They also had long-term liaisons rather than turning tricks on a nightly basis.

I have never been to Minneapolis, and got all my details about the garden and tea house from their web site. However, I have read _The Way of Tea_ by Sen No Rikyu. My explanation does not do it justice.

To my reviewers: Thanks so much! Aww, I'm sorry the chapter was so short, fandelivres. This one is a little longer, and the next is already half written. Swordstitcher, I _love_ being accused of brilliance. Thank you. Tev, right back at you, girl!


	13. Slade: Questionable Motives

Before they left the Imperial Hotel (room 1625), Yukie had asked him, "Do you ski?"

"Yes," he replied. "Why?"

"There are several excellent ski resorts in Japan. I'll book some time at one of them toward the end of the trip, now that I know you will enjoy it too."

"So you ski. What else do you do?" He was a touch annoyed by that, because his first thought was '_We could have been doing things like that all along_.' In addition to having sex, that is, not instead of, but that was the problem with going to bed with someone immediately and only finding out about them later.

"In terms of winter sports, a better question would be, what don't I do? Consider my employer. I ski, I skate, I snowboard, I snowshoe, I snowmobile. It is essentially a job requirement when one works for Dr. Fries."

He chuckled at that. "I never considered that."

With that in mind, he invited her to spend a few days over Christmas in the Lake Tahoe area, well known for its ski resorts. She accepted, saying she would rather give the Fries time to themselves over the holiday, and he made the reservations.

What he did not tell her was that he actually owned a house on the Nevada side of the lake, which was where he was right then, showering in the master bathroom after a (by his standards) moderate workout.

At about 8700 square feet of living space, it was neither the largest nor the smallest property he possessed. However, at less than five years old it was the newest, and it came with nearly a hundred feet of private waterfront and its own pier. Architecturally speaking, it was stunning, as most of the walls were glass, affording an unparalleled view of the lake. From the road, it was unimpressive—all that showed at the top of the cliff was the garage and an entryway door. Once inside, you had the choice of taking either the spiraling glass staircase or the private elevator down into the house itself. The first level down was a guest suite with a private bath.

Below that was the gym and spa with sauna; on the other side of the stairwell were the kitchen, living room and dining room, with a free standing fireplace in the center and a balconied terrace for dining outside on nice days. The next level down had the laundry room and linen closet on one side—the laundry room had two washers and two dryers, plus a thirty inch flat screen should watching towels tumble grow tedious. On the other side was the master suite, including a library/office and a bathroom with both a walk-in shower and a soaking tub.

Underneath that was the reason he wished he had owned that house while the kids were still small—two more bedrooms separated by what the architect called the garden room. It would have made a great playroom, although since it also had a door leading out to the path down to the lake, they would have had to keep it locked all the time until he was sure the kids wouldn't drown no matter the conditions.

The previous owners had asked for thirty-nine million for it, two years before; he paid thirty. It was a buyer's market at the time.

Other than the stools at the kitchen counter, the house had come unfurnished. Slade had added only five pieces of furniture to it: three chairs, one table, and a bed. Aside from essentials like a few clothes, towels and such, the only thing he brought there was part of his ever-growing weapons collection, and racks to store it on. Those he kept in the basement.

He had never brought anyone there. Nor was he going to bring Yukie there, not yet. If things did not work out, he would prefer she didn't know where he lived, even if he rarely used it. If they did work out, the Tahoe area had very mild summers. In August, the hottest month of the year, the average daytime temperature was only about seventy-five degrees, and freezing temperatures had been reported every month of the year. An ideal climate for someone prone to heatstroke.

Turning off the shower, he took a towel from the heated rack and rubbed his head briskly before drying off the rest of him. Returning to the bedroom, he discovered his phone was buzzing. Rose had texted him.

'_jst turnd n my essay on Macbeth/Throne of bl%d & my Tcha wz impressed already! Plz thk Yukie 4 me.'_

He might be fluent in every living language spoken on the face of the earth, but text speak took a moment to interpret and that annoyed him. He replied with one word. _'Why?_'

'_cuz i nevr wud hav watchD it f U hadn't told me bout her_.'

'_Will do_.' he sent back. '_I trust your essay wasn't written in text speak_.'

'_nvr! wot did U git her 4 Xmas? snd pic, plz!_'

He smiled to himself. He knew telling his daughter about Yukie would get her to talk to him again. She was a long way from trusting him, but the lines of communication were now open and that was a start. Going over to his suitcase, he found the black leather jewelry case, opened it, took a photo of the chain and earrings inside it, and sent it to her.

A few moments later he got the reply. '_gud choice. wot karat gold?_'

'_Twenty'_, he sent.

'_hI test! snd pic of her warin it, okay?_'

He deciphered that as more of a request for a picture of Yukie than anything else.

'_Will do. No more for now. I have to go pick her up. Merry Christmas, Rosie_.' He had sent her a new laptop, to be delivered on Christmas Eve.

'_U2, Dad!_'

He smiled again, and went into the closet to dress. In Gotham he usually wore a business suit and tie, but Lake Tahoe was a more casual area, and he chose more appropriate attire.

Yukie would be exactly what he needed to tie Rose to him again: someone she could trust even when she didn't trust him.

From the hour they met, Yukime Kuwano had reminded him of someone. Not a former lover nor any other woman on any side of the never-ending battle among the costumes, but still—she was reminiscent of someone he had known. Irritatingly so. It wasn't until their third date, the one where someone fired a mortar round into the restaurant, that he realized who.

He was face down on the bed and naked at the time, while she was straddling his waist. Not as a part of any kinky game, but because there were splinters of glass embedded in his shoulders, and she was painstakingly removing each one before his skin sealed up over them. Moreover, neither the bombing nor removing shrapnel fazed her. A very cool-headed, tough-minded woman.

Then it hit him. Wintergreen. Obviously she looked nothing like him, and it wasn't a matter of personality, either, but some deeper, harder to define quality which people called character. There were five words on Wintergreen's tombstone in addition to his name and the dates of his birth and death, a quote Slade recalled from a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson: _**Steel-True and Blade-Straight**_. Nothing could have summed up his character better. Loyal, steadfast, devoted, and trustworthy—all that was honorable and true.

Slade had never expected to find anyone of like character again, but there she was. At the time, Yukie had spent ten years in Freeze's employ, quietly and invisibly providing vital support behind the scenes. Even though Freeze was relatively unimportant on the world stage, she had politely yet firmly turned down Ra's Al Ghul's offer. Steel-true and blade-straight…

Up until that point, she had simply been a woman he found unusually attractive, interesting to talk to, and good in bed. It was like asking a mineralogist to take a look at an odd pebble he found on vacation and brought back as a whim, only to find out it was a diamond. The things he had learned about her since then, especially exactly why she had entered the Jian Wu competition in the first place, only confirmed her as a diamond of the highest quality.

What was he prepared to do in order to have someone like Wintergreen straightening out their lives and making everything run smoothly again? Whatever it took.

However, the fact that they were already intimately involved meant that he couldn't simply hire her, which could complicate matters.

Now dressed, he climbed the stairs to the garage. He had rented a car rather than use the Range Rover Sport he kept there, lest she put two and two together. The drive to the airport in Reno was uneventful, and Yukie was glad to see him, if a little tired and subdued after her delayed flight, but on the way back, they got stuck in traffic. Very stuck.

"I thought they never had traffic jams out here," he grumbled.

"It's true I would rather not be caught in one," Yukie observed, "but we are not under any time constraints, are we?"

"No, if we miss our dinner reservation, there's always room service," he said, shifting down gear again after inching another few dozen feet.

"Then, given that all else is comparable, would you rather stay in an inn that has been in operation for eight hundred years with traditional Japanese rooms, even if it means communal bathing, or a modern hotel with Western beds and en suite shower-baths?" She pulled out her tablet and called up a site. "Most traditional inns have private baths now, but a few do not."

"What's the point of going all the way to Japan and living just as we do here? I'll opt for the eight hundred year old inn, thank you. Ah—that reminds me. The first week of January, I have work lined up in Eastern Europe. Someone wants to houseclean for the New Year. It makes no sense for me to fly back to the States on the sixth or seventh only to fly out again on the ninth."

"Thank you for telling me," She worked for a few moments, "Would it make more sense to rendezvous in Paris or in Moscow?"

"Paris," he decided. "For one thing, you speak French, not Russian, and for another," he chuckled, "I'll be persona non grata in Moscow by then."

Although it took them forty minutes to go less than half a mile, they managed to do so without so much as a cross word or a dirty look. He wondered if she understood how unusual that was, and she caught him watching her and smiling.

"What is it?" she asked. "Have I a smudge on my face?"

"No," he replied. "I was just trying to think of another woman I know who wouldn't be doing a slow burn by now while I ground my teeth into powder. I can't decide whether you're strange for being the exception or whether all other women I know are irrational. Adeline would have picked a fight about something unrelated, and we'd be at the point where we weren't speaking at all."

"Being stuck is tedious enough without quarreling as well," Yukie observed. "But I was thinking much the same of you. The only time _you_ ever shout at me is if someone is shooting at us and you want me to duck. By this time, if you were my ex-husband, then I would…"

"Would have what?" he prompted. "You can't start a statement like that and not finish it."

"If I let myself talk about someone I broke up with, then someday I might talk about you." She finished in a very quiet voice.

He laughed. "How about we issue a statute of limitations? Ten years after I'm out of your life, you can say whatever you want to about me as long as it's true. Deal?"

"That seems fair," she allowed. "Then…if I were trapped like this with my ex-husband, I would be very close to physically ill. He—from the very start it was not good. In a traditional marriage, a marriage like my parents, the man is never home except to sleep. He works all week and then socializes with his coworkers. On the weekend he sleeps and recovers. All he does in the marriage is make babies and money, while the wife takes care of everything else. She decides where they will live, which house they will buy, how to invest their money, where the children go to school, how much spending money he will get, whether he can have a mistress and how much he can spend on her….

"I could have handled that. Even if I had to take care of his mother as well, because I liked her, and she could have taught me how to handle his moods, but she lived with his married sister. Instead, the brewery was right across the yard from the house, so he was _always there_.

"I would make breakfast, clean the house, make myself a cup of tea and sit down to, to…read a magazine or something, and he would come in and shout about how it was no wonder the place was a dump, since that was how I spent all my time, and throw the magazine across the room. Or I would be putting away his clean laundry, and he would upend the drawers on the floor because he didn't like how I folded things. The same if he didn't like his lunch. Then in the mid afternoon he'd…he'd want," She cast about for the right word. "He would want to have sex fast and go back to work."

"You mean a quickie," Slade helped.

"Yes, a quickie, and even if he were a wonderful lover, it wasn't possible to be _responsive_ after that. He kept tabs on when I left the house and came back, and demanded I account for every moment I was gone. I learned not to show when I was upset, because if he saw something bothered me, he would do it more, but behind my face, I would feel sick. We were like two fish in a bowl too small for us, so the water was dirty and I could not breathe."

"I don't know what you'd call it in Japan, but what you're describing is spousal abuse in the United States," he observed.

"In Japan…these things are not talked about. And it is _always_ the woman's fault," Yukie snarled. "It's _her_ job to make the marriage work, to be good and behave so he doesn't act that way. I knew I did not deserve to be treated like that, but in my heart…The head can know one thing while the heart believes another. I was also very young then. I wanted to make it work. I tried to make it work."

"How young?" He liked seeing that she could be angry about _something_, and it was illuminating to learn why she thought he was wonderful. In comparison, he was.

"I was twenty-one when we married. He was thirty-seven. It is, or was, normal for such an age gap between spouses. A man has to be able to support a family." That also explained, first, how old she was: twenty-one plus three years of marriage equaled twenty-four, plus twelve years with Freeze meant she was about thirty-six, and second, why _his_ age made no difference to her.

"Did he ever strike you?" Slade asked.

"Never. There were times he would have liked to, I think, but it never came to that."

"You never hit him?"

"No. If he had struck the first blow, I might have."

"Hmm—We've been together two years now. What don't you like about me?" he asked.

"Nothing!" she answered immediately.

"Now you're putting me on. There has to be something. Snoring, sleeping with a weapon under the pillow…"

"You can't help that you snore, and I am quite used to weapons. There is that face you make when you are confronted with a meatless meal—there, you're making it now! But even that I find more amusing than anything else."

"Marry me." he joked. "You find my profession unobjectionable, even honorable-."

"Not to mention recession-proof. People will always be willing to pay to have someone killed." she added, flashing a smile.

"- and there is nothing you don't like about me. It's clear to me I'm never going to do better than you, so there's nothing else to be done."

She made a face as though she smelled something bad. "No, thank you. There is a poem that says everything I feel. 'Stifling yawns, stifling myself: the sadness of being a wife'."

"If that's how you feel, I suppose there's nothing I can do but this," he reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out the jewelry case, and tossed it into her lap. "Merry Christmas. If you don't like it, you can blame my daughter. She insisted."

"You…told your daughter about me?" Yukie's brows drew together in the middle. "What did you say?"

"That I'd been seeing someone for a while, who you were, things like that. That we were taking a trip together. She told me to thank you for getting her interested in Kurosawa's Shakespeare adaptations, because she did an essay about one of them. She wants to meet you, but I told her she had to wait until we get back."

"That is for the best, I think," Yukie looked at the closed case as if there might be a baby rattlesnake in it.

"I thought so too. Aren't you going to open it?" Ah, there was an opening in the traffic. He moved over, and then had to stop the car again.

She did. The chain had simple round links alternating with smaller ornate links, and the high gold content meant it was a darker, richer shade than most modern jewelry. The earrings matched, and the only stones in the piece were tiny cabochon rubies on the clasp. At sixteen inches long, it should dip just below her collarbones.

He watched her face, which looked almost stricken. Was Rose wrong about giving her something, or had he made a mistake about her taste? "It can be exchanged—."

"No! It's very beautiful. I have never owed anything so fine." The smile she gave him was the aching, tender smile she saved for certain moments. "You…you surprised me, that is all. And now you have embarrassed me, for I have nothing for you."

"You're taking me to Japan for eight weeks. That's more than enough. Put it on, and I'll snap a picture for Rose, something else she insisted on. She's curious as hell about what you look like, and this is her way of being sneaky about it."

Yukie complied, opening her coat and freeing her hair from her hat. The rich dark gold emphasized the whiteness of her skin. "Perfect." He took out his phone and took the shot.

"Please thank her for me," Yukie said, "and tell her that if she wants to expand beyond Kurosawa, then to try Kwaidan, the one from the sixties. It's a collection of ghost stories, including the one from which I got the name I used for Jian Wu."

"I'll do that…If you were going to take up the costumed life, I'd say you ought to change it. Calling yourself 'Yuki-Onna' when your name is actually 'Yukie' misses the point."

"I will remember that—'Slayed'," she teased. "While you have your phone out, let me share the trip itinerary with you."

Unbeknownst to him, when he sent Rose the message and the picture later, he also sent the itinerary, for his impatient daughter had embedded a virus in one of her messages which copied all data from his phone to hers. Luckily it was only his social phone, and not the work one.

* * *

A/N: Well! A fast update for my loyal readers, and thank you. The house Slade has on Lake Tahoe is a real house. I am very interested in architecture ( I wish my art and math were up to a professional architect's standards, but they never will be.) and when I was looking around for an area where Yukie might want to live and found it, I 'borrowed' the description. There's a link in my profile if you want to see the real thing.

The Stevenson poem Slade quoted on Wintergreen's grave is actually a love poem titled, 'My Wife'. The sentiment holds true, however, and I admit I copied the idea from the grave of the creator of Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

To my reviewers Fandelivres, Tev, and Swordstitcher, an extra special thanks.


	14. Rose: A Likely Story

**December 23rd:**

Rose stared at the picture on her phone's tiny screen, and then sent it to her computer for a better look. So this was Yukie… Large eyes set in a thinnish face with a high forehead and a soft-looking mouth, that was her first impression. The second thought she had was that Yukime Kuwano looked—startled. Yes, definitely startled.

Even though her father had said she wasn't what most people considered beautiful and Tim had said pretty much the same, she had expected somebody who looked, well, gorgeous but hard-edged, like Lady Shiva or maybe Lucy Liu. Yukie looked feeling, sensitive. A sensitive, feeling person with no severe moral objections to murder for hire. _How does this make sense?_

She read the message, and then she looked at the itinerary. So they landed in Tokyo on the eleventh, and they were staying at the Ryokan Kanesei Hana for three weeks. Each day had a note or two about what they would be doing or where they would be going. 'Morning: Edo-Tokyo Museum. Afternoon, Sightseeing in Asakusa.' was straightforward enough, but there were also entries like 'Investigate sightings of Kuchisake-onna in/around Taito prefecture.' What did _that _mean? After that, they were going to be traveling around the country until the last week, which they would spend at the Hakkoda Resort Hotel, skiing. The notes for the area were 'Superior powder, never crowded, challenging runs. The Inn is known for the excellence of its cuisine.'

Okay, so now she knew everywhere they would be and when. _So what? What good does that do me?_

She found _Kwaidan _on line, and called it up. It was…surreal. Four ghost stories, sort of. The second one was more like a fairy tale and the last one was 'blink and you missed it' short.

The first story, 'Black Hair', was about a lordless samurai who divorced and abandoned his loyal, hardworking wife to marry a woman from a rich and influential family who could advance his career, but she turned out to be vain and self-indulgent. All he could think of was his lost love and how what he had gained was not worth what he had given up. Finally he finished his military service, divorced the nasty wife, and went back to find his first wife, who was still living in the ruins of their old house, dirt poor but unchanged.

Her love for him had never dwindled, either, for she took him back immediately. After spending the night with her, he woke in the morning to find he had been embracing a skeleton—his wife had died years before right there in their house. Ghosts in Japan must be something like vampires because he aged years overnight and died strangling in yards and yards of her black tresses.

Next there was the tale of 'Yuki-Onna', which she watched through once and decided to go back and watch again after she saw the rest. The third story was 'Hoichi the Earless'. Hoichi was a blind musician who thought he was giving a command performance to a great lord and his noble court in an elegant mansion when he was actually sitting in a cemetery playing for a lot of ghosts. The problem was that associating too much with the dead was killing him, so his friend, a Buddhist priest, wrote all over his body with holy texts to make him invisible to the ghosts.

That was interesting because it was like warding off a vampire with a cross—Rose had never thought that other religions might have their own equivalent. Unfortunately, the priest was called away in the middle of all the writing, and his assistant forgot to ink Hoichi's ears. When a ghost came to fetch him that night, all he could see was the musician's ears, so he ripped off the ears and brought those as proof he tried. At least Hoichi lived.

The fourth tale, 'In A Cup Of Tea', puzzled the hell out of her. Somebody looked in a cup of tea and saw faces, then he disappeared. That was it?

She went back to 'Yuki-Onna'.

There were two woodcutters, a young one and an old one. One winter night, the two of them were stranded on the wrong side of the river, so they took shelter in an unheated hut. The older fell asleep, but the younger could not stay asleep, and waking when he heard a sound, he saw the door to the hut open. In the eerie snow light, he saw a woman enter the hut. She was dressed all in white, and her skin was also very white. She was quite beautiful, but her lips were blue. She glided soundlessly over to the old man, and breathed on him, killing him. Then she turned to the younger, and seeing that he was awake, she spoke to him. Because he was young and handsome, she said, she would spare him, but warned him that if he ever told anyone about her, she would reappear and kill him instantly. He woke in the morning to find that if it was a dream, it was a prophetic one. The old man was dead, frozen solid.

A few months later, after he recovered from nearly freezing to death himself, he met a pretty girl walking along the road. Her name was O-Yuki, and she was going to the big city to find work as a servant. Seeing that she was tired, he invited her to the house where he lived with his mother to rest for a while. His mother liked her and warned her about the dangers the big city held for young women, particularly from bad men. Much better to stay in the country, where everyone knew each other and looked out for each other. Somehow O-Yuki never made it to the city…

Ten years later, O-Yuki and the woodcutter had three healthy children together, and were still happily married. His mother had died of old age, praising her daughter-in-law with her last breath. The village women commented on how young and fresh she still was, since peasant women were usually old and worn out before they were thirty, between hard work and childbearing. Then one night, seeing his wife sewing by the fire, the woodcutter remembered the woman he saw in the snow light. He told his wife about her, saying she was the only other woman he had ever seen who was as beautiful as she was.

O-Yuki sprang up. 'It was I! It was Yuki! I told you never to tell anyone, and I would kill you now, were it not for the sake of those children asleep in the next room. I am leaving, and you will never see me again, but if they ever have cause to complain about how you care for them, I will return and kill you!' Then she turned into a gust of icy wind and disappeared up the chimney.

The story reminded her of Irish tales about selkies, seal-people who shapeshifted by putting on and taking off seal skins. A man snuck up on a selkie maiden while she was in her human form, stole her sealskin, hid it, and then he could do as he liked with her because she couldn't return to the sea. After being married for several years, one of their children found the skin. The selkie seized it, leapt back into the sea, and disappeared forever, leaving her husband and children behind.

All in all, Rose liked the Japanese version better. _O-Yuki freely chose to love her woodcutter. She chose to marry him and have children with him._ _It didn't start out with theft and what amounts to rape, and she didn't abandon her children without looking back. She __**cared**__ about what happened to them._

Whatever O-Yuki was, she wasn't a ghost. Ghosts couldn't live for ten years among the living without hurting them, the stories 'Black Hair' and 'Hoichi the Earless' made that clear. _Maybe she was a supernatural being, or…a metahuman, like me, like Dad. Heck, like __**half **__the people I know. She had cold-based powers, but she could control them, and her husband never knew. And…maybe leaving because he told was only an excuse. People were already beginning to talk about how she didn't age. If she stayed another ten years, they'd do more than just talk. They'd know for __**sure**__ she was different_. _ Then what would they have done?_

Then again, it was only a very old story in an old movie_._

She understood about a third of the dialog now_. I'm picking up Japanese left and right. Another week, a dozen more movies, and I bet I won't need subtitles anymore. I can't read kanji yet, though._ There were two different ways of writing Japanese: kana, which was phonetic and easy, and kanji, which was based on Chinese pictographs and fiendishly difficult.

_In a week, I'd be able to go along with them and I'd do just fine. Hell, two weeks, and I wouldn't even need them, I could go on my own._

_I __**could **__go on my own…_

Quite a few disastrous decisions in life can be explained by one simple phrase, 'It seemed like a good idea at the time…'

* * *

**January 10th.**

"No," said the innkeeper. The hotel wasn't so much a hotel as it was an inn—smaller and homey—and in this case, it was an inn from at least a hundred years ago, maybe more, which was actually pretty cool, or it would be if they ever let her check in.

"But I have a reservation," Rose pleaded in perfect Japanese. "Look, I'll even pay in advance!" She took out her wallet to show him all the yen bills it was stuffed with. Learning the money wasn't going to be as hard as she feared, nor were the prices that bad, because one yen seemed to be worth more or less one American penny, not a dollar like the on-line currency converter said.

"I don't care," he said, not acting the least impressed by her command of his language. "We don't have a floor for single women guests, and even if we did, there would be no room for _you_." He looked her up and down. "Try down two blocks. There's a rabu hoteru there. _They_ have lower standards. They have no standards at all as long as you can pay."

What was a rabu hoteru? Rose had no idea, never having encountered the phrase before, and thus did not know he was directing her to one of the infamous love hotels which rented out theme rooms either by the hour or by the night. All she knew was that it had been more than thirty-six hours since she slept in a bed, showered, or eaten something other than the Salmonella Special, and not even enough of that. Twenty three of those hours had been spent on planes, and she was exhausted, filthy, smelly, starving, definitely cranky, and her nose was running because of all of the air pressure changes. At least she had gotten there on time, exactly twenty four hours before her father and Yukie were set to arrive.

She fished around in her purse for a pack of tissues, found them, and blew her nose loudly. For some reason that made the innkeeper even madder. "Leave! Whatever a girl your age is doing traveling alone, it can't be good and I won't have it here!"

"But my daughter is not traveling alone," someone behind her said. "She is traveling with us. I apologize for my crude and callow offspring. She may have learned how to speak the language, but she clearly absorbed nothing of Japan's culture or customs."

"Oh,**_ shit!_**," Rose said in English. She could not have turned to face her father to save her life at that moment. The innkeeper looked past her, and then up, and his eyes bulged when he beheld exactly how tall and massive the very, very imposing foreigner was.

"Crudely put, but my sentiments exactly," her father replied in the same language, "and we will discuss it further once we are in our rooms. Apologize and bow," he finished in Japanese, following it up with a light cuff to the back of her head.

She did, ducking her head down low. "I'm very sorry."

"Ah—we'll say no more of it," the innkeeper replied, still goggling at her father, who was probably the biggest man he'd ever seen outside of a sumo match. "But…" he ran his finger down the column of his registration book, "under the name of Wilson, there is a reservation for only one."

"There may be some confusion about that, which is entirely our fault," a woman said, stepping up beside Rose and flashing her a warm smile. Large eyes in a narrow, oval face, high forehead, and if there was any further confirmation needed, a familiar gold chain around her neck. It was Yukie, her dad's girlfriend and possibly her future stepmother. "The original reservation is for two under the name of Kuwano. I believe we have the Asago Suite, the one which faces the garden. Please, if it is at all possible, can she either have an adjoining room, or can we be moved to a suite with a second bedroom?" She bowed to the innkeeper.

"If someone must be moved, please charge their room to our bill, to make up for the inconvenience," her father added. "Clearly my daughter must not go unsupervised."

"The Asago Suite has futons for four," the innkeeper said, "and it is a two room suite, so if you move the dining table and slide the doors shut, there will be privacy."

"That is wonderful. Thank you very much," Yukie replied. "Of course we will pay for both the suite and her room."

"This way, please." The three of them followed the innkeeper in silence. I_ wish I could teleport out of here. Or go invisible. It would be so nice if I could just cloud their minds and make them forget this. Dropping dead would be good, too. I'd even settle for just fainting…__Maybe there'll be a meteor strike, or one of those huge insect or lizard things will attack the city…Nah, every site said the giant creatures only come out in late summer_. No such luck. All too soon, they reached a door which the innkeeper slid open for them, handing over keys and pointing out a few of the room's features, like the small garden with evergreens and snow outside the window.

"Thank you. Please send in a meal for three as soon as possible," her father ordered. For the first time since he'd spoken up at the front desk, Rose looked at him. _Oh, this isn't good_. He had that pale, sweaty look that he only got when he'd been hurt bad—_very_ bad—and he wasn't healed up enough yet. _So he's both in pain and furious. I'm__** really**__ in trouble now_.

"Now," he said in English and in a perfectly calm, conversational tone of voice, while sinking down to the floor and wincing as he did so, "we will have this out without shouting because you have created a bad enough impression already. Sit down, Rose. I'm not going to have you looming over us." Yukie took an earthenware bottle and two small wooden boxes from a shelf, knelt down beside him, poured something out of the bottle into a box, and handed it to him. He tossed it back and held it out for more. Some of the color was returning to his face.

Rose sat down cross legged. There were no chairs in the room. There was practically no furniture in the room, actually.

"Yukie, this is my daughter Rose. Unless Tokyo is in imminent danger and the rest of the Titans are close by, she had better have an explanation so epic it's Homeric in proportion. Rose, this is Yukime Kuwano, who invited me to Japan for the pleasure of _my_ company, not the pleasure of yours."

"Hello, Rose," Yukie said, looking grave enough for an entire cemetery. "I did not think we would meet so soon, and I never thought we would meet in Japan without advance notice." _Great. She's going to think I'm this stupid kid, and she'll never like me_. To be fair, this was about the most foolish thing she had ever done.

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, I'm sure you are, now that you've been caught." Slade Wilson said. He picked up the earthenware bottle and poured Yukie a box of whatever was in it. "Now you can apologize to Yukie for intruding on her first vacation in twelve years, for invasion of our privacy, and for making us have to change our plans in order to send you home. In twelve hours you're going to be back on a plane heading for the US. If I hadn't had to jump off a bridge in Kiev and landed badly, we'd be on our way to the airport now."

There was no way she could call this icy creature 'Yukie' without being invited to. "Ms. Kuwano. I'm really sorry," Rose said. "I just-I really am sorry. It's not Dad's fault. I thought you weren't even arriving until the eleventh!"

"And if we had, would that have made everything all right?" he asked sardonically.

"No, it wouldn't," she admitted.

Yukie put in, "The confusion over the date is easily explained. In the United States, where I planned this trip, it is indeed the eleventh. But when you crossed the International Date Line in mid-Pacific Ocean, it became the tenth again."

"Oh," Rose said.

"'Oh' is not an explanation. 'O' is a letter in the alphabet," her father remarked. "Among other things, I would like to know how you learned enough about where we were going to try and get here before we did."

"I put a trojan on your phone when I texted you before Christmas," she muttered. "When you sent me that picture of Ms. Kuwano wearing the necklace, you sent me the itinerary too."

"That explains how. Now how about you explain why." Her father could deliver more powerful glares with only one eye than anybody else could with two.

"I-Look, can I use the bathroom first? It was a long taxi ride from the airport." Rose was playing for time, but she really did have to go.

"It's through there," Yukie gestured. "You will want to take off your house slippers and exchange them for toilet slippers."

"Okay." The innkeeper had made her take off her shoes and put on slippers when she came in—she'd known about that, but she never thought she'd actually have to do it—but toilet slippers?

It got worse. When she went in the little room, the toilet looked nothing like any American toilet. It looked like a urinal set horizontally in the floor. _I am __**so**__ not ready for this._ "Um…" she raised her voice.

"I advise taking off your jeans and underwear completely until you are accustomed to using such facilities. Then face the wall and squat over the end nearest to it." Yukie called.

"Ooookay…" She did so, hearing her father and Yukie's voices, but not catching what they were saying. _They're probably fighting already. This is awful. I couldn't have screwed up worse_. At least it killed time, especially since she had to get undressed and dress again.

"No more stalling," he warned her.

"I don't know why," she admitted. "I didn't want to wait until March and...well, I was afraid this was all bullshit. I thought if I could see you together when you didn't know you were being watched, I'd know if this was for real."

"_That_ was your plan?" her father demanded. "You skipped school, flew thousands of miles to a foreign country, spent I don't know how much on plane tickets, all to spy on us, and you were busted within ten minutes. All I can say is, don't _ever_ plan any more independent missions in the field, because this one is a disaster. How did you afford this?"

"It was that trust fund money," she said. _My face can't possibly get any redder or hotter._

"You mean the fund I set up for you? The same money you said you would never touch because it was bloodstained? _That_ money?"

"Yes."

"So it's not too dirty to touch when there's something you really want. And what about your school? How did you explain your absence?" Her father crossed his arms and waited for a response.

"That was the easy part. Being with the Titans, we're always having to leave for weeks when something happens."

He sighed heavily. "There are literally dozens of hero teams ready to spring into action to save the world. _You_ are the only one who can get your education for you. I am deeply disappointed in you, Rose. Of all the idiotic things you could have done..." The way he looked at her made her wish he would just hit her instead, that was how much it hurt.

There was a sound outside the door, and it slid open. Two women in kimonos, obviously mother and daughter, were there with trays of food. "No more about this tonight," Yukie decreed. "Let's just enjoy our dinner, have a long soak, and get some sleep. We'll have more spirit to argue about this in the morning."

* * *

A/N: So why the lengthy description of the movie Kwaidan? All I can say is, you never know what may turn out to be important later. The four stories were all taken from the works of Lafcadio Hearn, an Irish-Greek expatriate writer who settled in Japan. The earthenware bottle contains sake, BTW, and the small wooden boxes are sake cups called masu made out of hinoki wood.

To my reviewers, Tev, Dan, and fandelivres, many thanks!


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